Classicverse
by Elspeth1
Summary: AU conceived as a modern retelling of early Avengers. Part 1: The Avengers find something interesting in the Arctic, which goes much better than bad science-fiction would lead you to expect.
1. Avengers Assemble!

**Title:** Classic-verse 1  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG-13  
**Pairings:** Currently none. Eventual Hank/Jan  
**Warnings:** ... Fluff? No slash as yet.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** AU conceived as a modern retelling of early Avengers. Of course, there are about six seasons planned, so it won't end up mirroring canon completely.  
**Summary:** The Avengers find something interesting in the Arctic, which goes much better than bad science-fiction would lead you to expect.

And again, our thanks to angelofharmony and tavella for the great beta job.

* * *

"_We shall fight evil together! Or separately, as needs be."_ (_Avengers,_ Volume 1 #1)

The Stark Enterprises deep-sea exploration prototype A (Arctic model), was only fifty feet long, a sixth of the size of an old, World War II diesel submarine. It was still easily three times the size of the average deep sea exploration sub; the ice-breaker mounted on the bow added extra length, just as the three-layered hull added extra width, and the inside had enough room for an entire scientific research expedition, provided that they didn't mind sleeping in very small bunks.

This mission, however, wouldn't last long enough for anyone to have to sleep onboard, and the "crew" consisted of only four people. And while Thor might be tall enough that he had to duck his head to keep from knocking it on the ceiling, Hank Pym and Jan Van Dyne could both shrink down small enough to ride around on ants -- which Tony had always suspected was the real reason behind the invention of Pym particles. Hank had always had an inexplicable fascination with insects. Hence, developing a biochemical formula that would let him shrink down small enough to interact with bugs.

Still, space was tight enough that Tony was glad for his newly developed, more compact armor. The original, golden suit had been bulky enough that Iron Man would have had trouble fitting through the narrow interior hatches. The updated red and gold suit, made of flexible metal that had involved four separate Stark Enterprises patents, fit like sophisticated body armor and was far more maneuverable, as well as lighter, something that was turning out to have benefits beyond the fact that wearing it was easier on his damaged heart.

"Is it much farther until we reach our destination?" Thor's deep, rumbling bass echoed off the sub's metal bulkheads. "I grow weary of not being able to stand upright."

"This was your idea, Goldilocks," Hank pointed out. He was bending over the sonar screen, keeping a close eye on the waters ahead.

"That's what you get for being tall, big guy." Hank's girlfriend, Jan, was perched on a corner of the screen, in her tiny, winged "Wasp" form. She gave Thor a little wave. "I fit just fine pretty much anywhere."

"The heat from the volcanic vent has caused the ice flow in this area to break up into smaller icebergs," Tony said. "We have to travel more slowly to avoid hitting any of them. Sorry; even a reinforced, ice-breaker hull wouldn't stand up to the kind of impact that took out the Titanic." He pulled the water-temperature sensor data up on his helmet's internal read-outs, and watched the lines of information scroll across the corner of his vision. "The water temperature's rising, though, so we're getting close."

"I mislike this." Thor frowned at the array of glowing screens. "This stretch of ocean lies near the entrance to the underground cavern where my father hath imprisoned that treacherous creature, Loki. I fear that yon dormant volcano's return to life may be a sign that his bonds have weakened."

"We know," Jan said. "You've told us twice."

Tony thought she might be teasing, but he wasn't sure. He'd known Jan Van Dyne casually for most of his life; as the daughter of Vernon Van Dyne, she'd grown up in the center of New York society, heiress to the sort of old money that considered the Starks to be jumped-up war-profiteers. It was only over the past couple of weeks that he had spent any time around her outside of a cocktail party or a charity dinner, though, and she had no idea that "Iron Man" was actually Tony Stark.

"There's another mass of ice a few hundred yards in front of us," Hank said. "You're going to have to bear to starboard." He frowned, and tapped the screen with one finger. "That's funny. The instruments are picking up metal ahead of us."

Tony check the readings himself. "They are," he confirmed. "A small amount of it inside the ice." What the hell... "That's not all. The sensors are picking up lifesigns." For all that Thor had insisted that this part of the North Atlantic was where Loki had been entombed, Tony hadn't really expected to find anything except some mid-sized volcanic activity.

He'd heard about the superpowered man calling himself the "Son of Odin" on and off for the last few years, but he'd never really believed that "the Mighty Thor" was anything more than an exceptionally powerful mutant who'd come up a clever way to get good publicity, or possibly another deluded (if harmless) man who'd found some powerful alien hammer, a Nordic version of the Mandarin. Then he'd seen Thor go up against the Hulk, had watched him actually call down lightning and thunder, and now all bets were off. Maybe Thor really was a god. Maybe Loki really was here, and maybe the low-ebb biorhythms coming from something buried within the ice were him.

Or maybe they were a sea-monster or something else that wouldn't appreciate being disturbed. This sort of thing never turned out well in science fiction movies.

"Well, of course there are lifesigns," Jan said. "There are fish, and possibly whales, too. The heated water might be drawing all sorts of sea life."

Tony frowned, then remembered that nobody could see his facial expressions as long as he was wearing the helmet, and shook his head. "Whatever this is, it's warm-blooded, and definitely not a fish. From the temperature levels, I think it's hibernating."

Hank stared at him, expression blank. "Nothing aquatic hibernates." And Hank would know that better than Tony; he was a biochemist, not an engineer, and had much more experience with the side of biological science. Not the kind of person you would expect to find playing superhero. But then, Tony wasn't the superhero type, either, and look where he was now.

"Mayhap it is my kinsman." Thor folded his massive arms across his chest, fingers brushing the hilt of his giant hammer. It was made of some kind of hard, silvery metal that Tony had never encountered before. He desperately wanted to examine it, but you couldn't exactly ask the god of thunder to let you play with his weapons.

"Mayhap," Tony agreed. He turned to the helm, shifting the engine to "full stop" and adjusting the stern planes to take them three points to starboard. The armor enhanced his strength, making pulling the large, metal wheel around an easy task. "I'm bringing us to a stop. My employer would want us to investigate this." It was the literal truth; Tony did want to investigate.

Jan launched herself off the sonar screen and grew to full size, feet hitting the metal decking with a soft click. Every time Tony had seen her, she had been in a new and different costume. This one featured knee-high boots with two-inch heels and elbow-length gloves. "Confess, Iron Man. I don't think you're actually checking things with Tony Stark at all." She grinned impishly up at Tony. "I think you just want to poke at this yourself."

"I have Mr. Stark's full confidence," Tony said. "He trusts me to make decisions in the field, and anyway, I know he'd be interested in this." Which, again, was true. Technically.

"I'm sure he would be," Jan said, smile turning sharp. The media dismissed her as a shallow, flighty trust fund bimbo, but Tony remembered watching her "accidentally" spill red punch all over Sebastian Shaw's white linen suit and then excuse herself with the kind of flustered innocence that only the most manipulative of eight year old girls could pull off. Jan Van Dyne was anything but a bimbo, and Tony suspected that if she didn't actually know that Tony Stark, head of Stark Enterprises, and Iron Man, his armored bodyguard, were actually the same person, she at least had a pretty good idea.

At the same party where Jan had thrown her punch on Sebastian Shaw, Tony had been dragged home in disgrace for rewiring the host's security system so that it went off every time a new guest arrived. He suspected that Norman Osborn still hadn't forgiven him for the embarrassment he'd suffered when the police had arrived in the middle of his New Year's gala, and Tony had never been able to convince his parents that he honestly hadn't been acting with malicious intent. He'd just been eight years old and very, very bored.

Jan had winked at him as his father had hauled him out to the car.

Tony activated the controls for the external cameras, flipping on the underwater floodlights mounted on the front of the hull. Then he stared at the image that popped up on the viewscreen in shock. It was definitely not Loki.

Jan peered over Tony's armored elbow at the screen. "It that what I think it is?"

""If that's what I think you think it is..." Tony let his voice trail off, staring at the video feed of what was very clearly a man buried in the transparent block of ice. The ice distorted Tony's view of him enough that he couldn't make out details, but the floodlights were reflected back by a large disc of something metallic, and something about the man's outline was familiar.

"Is it my kinsman?" Thor asked.

"No, wait," Hank said. "Don't tell me; it's a seal."

Thor frowned, blond eyebrows drawing together ominously. "Friend Ant-Man, do not take the threat that Loki represents too lightly. His strength exceeds that of even the Hulk, and he is more clever by far."

And if even Thor, who could honestly match the Hulk for strength, could say that, Tony reflected, then it made Loki a serious threat indeed. But what they were dealing with now, if Tony was correct, was anything but a threat.

"I don't take him lightly," Hank protested. "I just don't think this is him."

"It's not," Tony said. "Come and take a look at this."

"It is a dead man," Thor said, as he bent over Tony's shoulder to look. "Frozen in the ice."

"No," Hank said slowly. "According to the readings, he's alive. How the hell is he alive?"

"Because he's Captain America," Jan said firmly.

"Wait, what? He's who?" Hank's eyebrows raised, and he leaned forward to take a closer look at the monitor. "How do you know who he is?"

"There was a poster of him on the wall of my seventh-grade history classroom." Jan stabbed a finger at the screen. "That's Captain America's shield, so that has to be Captain America."

Hank and Thor still looked skeptical.

"It was one of kind," Tony explained, "Made of an alloy of Wakandan vibranium and steel." No wonder it had only appeared to be trace amounts of metal on the sonar array. Wakandan vibranium absorbed vibrations, including sound waves. "Steve Rogers was the only man who ever carried it, and he was supposed to have been lost in action over the North Atlantic in 1945. That was sixty years ago; I can't believe he's still alive." If you could call being in suspended animation in the middle of a block of ice 'alive.'

"I did a research project on the supersoldier serum in college," Hank said. "There was some indication from the original 1941 tests that it might have created what modern scientists would have termed a 'healing factor.' At least, I thought there was. My professor said I was theorizing with insufficient data and gave me a C."

"How did you get any data?" Tony asked. "The entire weapon X project is classified. I checked."

"The family of one of the early test subjects used the Freedom of Information Act to access some information about it during the early nineties. It's in the National Archives now, the Bradley papers. You need permission from the family to look at them, because it's all medical records."

"That would explain it. I was always more interested in Steve Rogers himself than in the serum. Well, and the shield. Stark Enterprise's work with adamantium was really an attempt to duplicate the alloy, but all we got out of it was liquid steel and the flexible metal alloy my armor is made from, which both have processing methods similar to the ones used to create adamantium."

Hank and Jan were both staring at him. "Well, that's what Mr. Stark told me when I asked him," Tony added.

"From what I have heard," Thor's voice echoed from behind Tony, "this man was a great hero and a noble warrior. We must aid him. Investigating Loki's prison can wait."

Using the sub's laser cutting tool to remove the portion of the ice encasing Captain America from the rest of the iceberg was a simple process, but it took nearly a quarter of an hour -- Tony didn't want to accidentally cut _him_. After that, opening the underwater hatch and pulling the block of ice inside with the robot arms originally designed to collect rock samples was the work of moments.

Once the water had finished draining from the airlock, and Thor had carried the block of ice into the laboratory, even Hank had to admit that it was clearly Captain America. He was wearing the shredded remains of his red, white, and blue uniform, right down to the little, white wings on his cowl.

Still, there was no harm in being cautious. Tony set the sub down on the ocean floor, where it could remain stationary, and cut the engine. He used the sub's satellite uplink, which he'd initially planned to use to stream geological data on the volcano back to Stark Enterprises, to send a priority message to SHIELD, including digital footage of the ice-block.

Colonel Nicholas Fury, SHIELD's commander, had served with Captain America during World War II, back when Fury had been an ordinary special ops soldier rather than the head of an international anti-terrorism organization. If there was anybody alive today who would recognize Steve Rogers, it would be Fury.

As far as Tony was concerned, though, calling Fury was just a formality. There was no doubt in his mind that this was exactly who it looked like.

"Iron Man!" Fury's voice barked loudly. The connection didn't have video, but Tony could picture Fury glaring and gesticulating with his cigar just fine without it. "What the hell is this? Is this some kind of joke?"

"I assure you, Colonel," Thor said, his deep voice grave. "This is no joke."

"And your science doohickeys say he's alive?" There was a moment of silence after Hank's affirmative response, and then, "I order you to bring that block of ice into SHIELD headquarters the moment you get back to New York, Iron Man, or your boss can cancel all of his new contracts with SHIELD."

"Yes sir," Tony said. "It will be a while yet, though. We've got to finish investigating this volcano." Fury cut the connection, and Tony turned to Hank. "Get ready to start a controlled thaw. We don't want to hurt him when we get him out of this ice."

Thor raised one eyebrow. "Are you sure we should risk the wrath of the loud, angry man? I would not wish to get you into trouble with your liege-lord."

Thor knew perfectly well who Nick Fury was, and it was obvious that for all he was pretending concern for Iron Man potential disgrace, he clearly also wanted to thaw Steve Rogers out as soon as possible.

"Stark won't mind," Tony assured him anyway. "He's been fascinated by Steve Rogers since he was a kid."

The process of thawing took hours, raising the temperature only a few degrees at a time. Nevertheless, the four of them remained clustered in the tiny lab, watching as the ice melted and puddles of water formed on the floor under the lab table.

Rogers was much bigger than Tony had expected, easily over six feet with the broad-shouldered, muscular build of a football linebacker; he must have been huge by the standards of the nineteen-forties. He was every bit as square-jawed and classically handsome as those old posters had depicted him, and even wet, his hair was as strikingly blond as Thor's.

He honestly was a propaganda poster come to life.

"He's much younger than I thought," Jan observed. She glanced at Hank out of the corner of her eye and added, "Much handsomer, too."

"Well, he's still too old for you," Hank said.

Jan was right; he didn't look much older than Tony, maybe twenty-five at the outside. Whatever disaster had landed him in the middle of an iceberg hadn't left any marks on him beyond the damaged clothing. He looked like he could wake up at any moment.

"This may not be Loki," Tony said to Thor, ignoring Hank and Jan's flirting -- at least, he thought it was flirting, "but I hopefully even for the God of Thunder, this is a successful polar expedition."

Thor laughed, a loud rumbling sound that echoed off the bulkheads. "We can examine Loki's prison after he has awakened."

Hank had hooked the heart monitor from the sub's medical equipment up to Rogers as soon as the ice had melted sufficiently to allow it. The slow, steady beeps that had been playing in the background for the past two hours suddenly spiked to a crescendo of frantic sound.

Tony jumped, casting an involuntary glance at the heart monitor.

On the table, Steve Rogers sat up, eyes wide. "Bucky!" he shouted, "Look out!" He flung himself off the table, shield clutched in one hand, then wobbled as his legs refused to support his weight.

Thor took a long step towards Rogers, and grabbed him gently by the elbow, taking most of his weight. "Calm yourself. You are amongst friends."

Rogers blinked at him, looking dazed and very young. "Who are you?"

Tony laid one gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "We were studying volcanic activity in this area. We found you in the water." Explaining who the Avengers were would take much longer, and could wait.

"Did you find anyone else?" Rogers asked, sounding not quite desperate. "There was someone else with me."

"Just you," Hank said, shaking his head and looking away.

"You have to look." Rogers jerked himself away from Thor and Tony and took a step towards Hank, then swayed and grabbed onto the edge of the table. "He's smaller than me. He'll go hypothermic faster. He could already be-"

Jan stepped forward and put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "When we found you, you were frozen in the ice," she said gently. "I'm sorry. It's been almost sixty years since the war ended."

Rogers stared at her, jaw set. He blinked hard, then said, "I saw the plane blow up, but I thought, maybe... Sixty years?"

"You and James Barnes have been listed as killed in action for over half a century," Tony told him. There had been a nineteen-year-old private named James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes along with Rogers on his final mission; Barnes' precise role in the mission had never been specified. "He was awarded the medal of honor for destroying that plane. You were, too."

"It can't have been sixty years." Rogers pulled off one of his red leather gloves and stared down at his obviously youthful hand. "I'm not any older."

"The ice must have put you into a state of suspended animation," Hank said. "It would have slowed all of your metabolic functions." He paused, studying Rogers' expression, than added, "Um, we won. If that helps."

Thor shouldered the rest of them aside and slung an arm around Rogers' shoulders. "You have been frozen for a very long time, my friend. You must be in need of a meal. And perhaps having eaten, you shall feel sturdier."

"Food would be good," he said slowly. The he turned to Tony, frowning. He had extremely blue eyes. "Is that diving gear?' he asked, waving a hand at Tony's head-to-toe red and gold armor. "Were you the one who pulled me out of the water?"

"It was a team effort," Tony said hastily. "And this is high-tech combat armor."

Rogers nodded, and scrubbed a hand over his face, then looked up, blinking at all of them. He looked steadier on his feet than he had a few moments ago, his grip on the table abandoned. "So, who are you people?"

* * *

"Wait, let me get this straight. He was caught in an explosion, but instead of dying, he turned into a giant green monster who tried to destroy the city."

The red and gold helmet nodded. It was a disconcertingly human gesture coming from what looked to all intents and purposes like a robot. Jim Hammond, the human torch, had appeared far more, well, human, but Steve was pretty sure that, underneath all of that hardware, there was an actual human being.

"That sounds like King Kong," he said bluntly. Nothing anyone had said to him over the past half-hour had made any sense at all, except for Thor's suggestion that he eat. He hadn't thought that he was hungry, but then they had set a plate of sandwiches in front of him, and he'd realized that he was starving.

Thor and Iron Man had taken him to the sub's tiny galley, while Dr. Pym and the Wasp had gone to re-engage the engine and man the submarine's controls, taking them back to New York.

He wondered what New York was like now.

The past few days, prior to the airplane's explosion, were something of a blur, but Steve was pretty sure that he and Bucky hadn't gotten breakfast before jumping aboard that German plane. And apparently, he'd then spent sixty years on ice.

They had received word that a German SS officer named Heinrich von Zemo planned to send a drone plane packed with explosive into Allied territory. He and Bucky had been ordered to destroy it, the kind of thing they'd done dozens of times before. It was supposed to be easy, routine, not... But the plane had already been taking off, and Steve had decided to jump aboard at the last minute. And then Bucky had gotten caught on the plane's wing, and Steve had fallen into the water, and the plane had exploded. He should have called off the mission, shouldn't have let himself and Bucky go in unprepared. They hadn't even had parachutes.

He should have broken ribs when he hit the water, should have burns from being caught in the explosion's blast-radius. They must have healed while he was frozen; he'd gotten off much more lightly than he deserved.

"Trust me," Iron Man said, "it was much uglier than King Kong."

"Verily, he was a mighty foe. But our combined strength o'erwhelmed him, and we prevailed." Thor made a sweeping gesture with one massive hand, encompassing himself, Iron Man, and presumably the other two 'Avengers' as well, the woman who could shrink down very small and the other man, Hank Pym, whose power Steve still didn't know. "And thenceforth decided to band together whenever the need arose."

"A little bit like the Invaders," Iron Man put in.

The Invaders... It felt like only a few hours since that plane had exploded, since he'd seen Bucky -- But apparently, he'd missed more than half a century. "So it's really the twenty-first century?" Steve shook his head, staring down at his hands. The red leather of his gloves looked just as bright as it had when he'd put them on this morning. They didn't look sixty years old.

"I'm sorry." There was a hollow echo to Iron Man's voice, but beneath that, he sounded sincere. "I know this must be hard."

Sitting around and feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to do anyone any good. "The man in the red costume, Pym, said we won the war. How long did that take?"

"Germany surrendered in early May of 1945, and Japan surrendered on August fifteenth, just a few months later."

It had been April when Steve had gone out on that last mission. He'd missed the end of the war by only a few weeks. He and Bucky had planned out everything that they were going to do when Hitler surrendered and they finally got back to New York, right down to eating dinner at the Rainbow Room, because they'd both been sure that they'd have enough unspent backpay by that point to afford it. "Have we gone to the moon yet?" he asked. "Or Mars?"

"Yes," Thor said. "Men have been to the moon several times."

"We're working on Mars," Iron Man added.

"Really?" He hadn't actually been serious; people had honestly been to the _moon?_ How much else had changed that he hadn't expected?

"Yeah. They shot them out of a giant gun." Iron Man waved metal-encased hands, miming firing a weapon.

"And when they got to the moon," Steve said, very seriously, "were the Ziegfeld Follies girls there?"

Thor looked at him blankly. "There are no people on the moon. The moon is barren and airless."

Steve blinked at him, feeling faintly embarrassed now. Maybe Iron Man had been serious. "It was an old movie," he said. "I was joking."

"So was I," Iron Man said. "But I was actually talking about the Jules Verne story."

Steve could feel himself grinning; even if the other man hadn't been talking about the old French film, he'd still been referencing something Steve knew. "I liked _Around the World in 80 Days_ better, anyway."

Iron Man nodded. "That one's good, but I always liked _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_. Do you know that the principles the _Nautilus_ is based on actually work? You actually can get electricity from sea water."

Thor stared at his companion with a slightly bemused expression. "Verily," he said.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Iron Man had built that tin suit himself, though Steve couldn't imagine where he'd gotten the money for it. The man was an engineer if Steve had ever met one.

He dropped his gaze back to his hands. These people were friendly, but the entire situation didn't feel right. He ought to be reporting in to someone, being debriefed. But the mission he'd been on was decades out of date; the war was over, and everybody he'd known in the army was probably dead, his superiors included.

He hadn't had any family even before the war; it was one of the reasons they'd chosen him for the supersoldier project. He hadn't had anyone except Bucky, and now...

He didn't even have a house anymore, and if he was legally dead, he wouldn't even be able to check into a hotel. You couldn't access your bank accounts if you were dead.

"So," Steve said, trying to look cheerful, "are the Dodgers still at Ebbets Field?"

Thor frowned. "The what?"

Iron Man looked away for a second, then back to Steve. His metal faceplate was expressionless, but Steve still got an impression of regret. "About that... I just want to make it clear that I think everyone involved was scum."

* * *

"My men in SHIELD are reliable, Mr. President. I pay them very well in order to ensure that. If they say that this is him, I can assure you that it is him. That, or Stark's lackey is lying, and even Stark wouldn't have the arrogance to make that kind of claim without the evidence to back it up."

There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of static that was the inevitable consequence of placing a cell phone call to Vespugia. Vespugia might be relatively technologically developed, but it was still a tiny nation in the midst of the South American rainforest, and satellite reception was not one of its government's main priorities.

"I want that block of ice, Hammer, before they have a chance to, shall we say, defrost him." Even over the phone, El Presidente's hoarse, whispery voice made Justin Hammer's skin creep. The man was older than sin, and he radiated malignancy. On the other hand, his men paid very well for firearms and munitions, and Vespugia was one of Hammer Industry's largest sources of raw materials, which made the revulsion that Hammer felt every time he spoke to the man more than worth it.

"That's not going to be easy. Stark's paid superhero team have taken it back to their so-called 'Avengers Mansion,' and while their security is less formidable than SHIELD's, I don't have any people in place there." Not for want of trying, either. Anthony Stark seemed to inspire an inexplicable loyalty in his employees, doubtless due to his extravagant payscales.

Howard Stark had been far easier to deal with, but then, he'd been an experienced businessman, someone who understood how the world worked, and was willing to compromise when needed. His spoilt upstart of a son was far more troublesome, a shallow, self-absorbed brat who completely ignored the variety of unspoken agreements Howard Stark had had with any number of his fellow CEOs about operating in one another's territories.

Hammer Industries had been SHIELD's primary weapons supplier since the organization's inception, as well as the vendor for their security systems.

"Don't hand me excuses, Justin," El Presidente wheezed. His slight German accent gave the words a harsh tone. "We have an agreement. Trust me, if this is really Rogers, it would be in your best interest as well to make certain that he remains on ice. My people are the ones who will be taking all of the risks. Your job is merely to provide them with information. Surely this is not too difficult a task..." he let the statement trail off, implying that, in his estimation, Hammer was just barely qualified for it.

Hammer took a deep breath, thinking firmly of plutonium and uranium deposits and South American oil wells and lead mines. "They have to bring him in to SHIELD eventually. The Director's ordered them to." Even Anthony Stark, naïve and short-sighted as he was, wasn't going to defy a direct order from Colonel Fury so soon after acquiring all of those SHIELD contract bids.

"That would be very useful," El Presidente sneered, "were it not for the fact that no one knows where Fury's headquarters is located, let alone how to get in."

"My company designed and installed their security systems," Hammer said silkily. He'd been saving that piece of information as a final bargaining chip, if it ever became necessary to renegotiate their arrangement, but with Stark Enterprises in the process of upgrading SHIELD's security, the information was fast approaching the end of its usefulness. "I think I might be able to locate the information you need. However, there is the minor matter of import taxes on my products..." He let the sentence trail off, much as El Presidente had done earlier.

"I believe that something can be arranged."

* * *

Hank Pym's lab was full of strange electrical devices, all of which seemed to be covered in blinking lights. Steve had no idea what any of them were for, but they looked very expensive. Iron Man's employer really must be a wealthy businessman -- Iron Man had _said_ he was a "billionaire," but that had to be an exaggeration for dramatic effect. Nobody had a billion dollars, not even the Rockefellers.

On the other hand, he had apparently had an extra mansion just lying around to give to the Avengers for their headquarters, so he probably actually was a millionaire.

Steve rested his hands on the edge of the exam table he was sitting on and swung his bare feet back and forth. The metal table must have been designed to accommodate Thor; Steve's feet dangled several inches above the floor.

Tony Stark was probably an aging business tycoon who'd become a philanthropist to make up for a lifetime of sharp dealings. Or maybe he was bored, and had decided to sponsor a team of superheroes to gain a little vicarious excitement. Either way, the fact that he needed a bodyguard as formidable as Iron Man said something about him, and Steve wasn't entirely sure if that something was good. You could tell a lot about a man from the quality of his enemies.

"Everything checks out fine, as far as I can tell." Pym looked up from the device he was currently fiddling with and smiled. He looked as if he were a couple of years older than Steve; it was jarring to think that this man hadn't even been born yet when Steve had fallen from that plane. "You're in amazing shape for somebody who's been on ice for sixty years. This was mostly just a formality, anyway. I'm sure SHIELD's doctors will want to take a look at you again, later, but that'll probably be just a formality as well."

Steve hopped off the table, the tile floor cold under his bare feet. "I don't suppose you know why?" he asked. "I mean, why I didn't age?"

"My best guess is that the combination of the low temperature of the ice and the latent healing factor of the supersoldier serum combined to put you into a state of suspended animation."

"You mean, I'm the same age now as I was in 1945 because I was frozen?" Saying it aloud made it sound even more ridiculous. He shouldn't even be alive, much less the same age. People didn't get frozen solid in icebergs and survive to tell the tale, not outside of science fiction pulp magazines.

Pym looked slightly abashed, frowning down at his instruments again. "Basically, yes. I know it sounds silly, but stranger things happen all the time."

Steve wasn't going to argue that. He quelled the impulse to ask 'what strange things?" and just nodded. "Can I put my shirt back on now?" He picked up the tunic of his costume, examining the holes torn and burned into the blue leather. "Actually, do you know if there's anywhere I could find a new one? Or some civilian clothes?" It occurred to him, suddenly, that he had no idea what everyday clothing looked like in the future. Maybe the skin-tight, brightly colored costumes Pym and the Wasp wore weren't costumes at all. Maybe that was simply how people dressed now.

"Iron Man called ahead and let Tony know you were coming." Pym waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sure he'll have clothes for you. But about the supersoldier serum; you realize that, once word gets out that you're back, there are going to be a lot of people who will be very interested in you. They've tried to re-create the serum a number of times, but you're the only known successful test subject." He frowned, then added, "Look, if anyone wants to use you to restart the project, tell them no. And don't be afraid to call the Avengers if they give you a hard time about it. Some of the scientists who've worked on the Weapon X project over the years were not very nice people."

"I know," Steve said. The two attempts to recreate the supersoldier formula during the war had both been spectacular failures; the soldiers the flawed formulas had been tested on had gone insane. "I suppose I'll need to contact the army and let them know I'm still alive."

Pym shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about that. SHIELD is a UN-sponsored military organization; I'm sure they'll be able to get things straightened out with the army for you."

They probably would able to, in the long run, but Steve had seen the kind of red tape that inevitably arose when different military services collaborated. He needed money, a valid ID, a roof over his head; all he had right now was his shield and a slightly torn costume. He didn't even know where he was going to sleep tonight, unless the Avengers were nice enough to offer him a room.

"You should talk to Tony when he gets here," Pym went on, seemingly reading Steve's mind. "I'm sure he'll be able to get you anything you need."

Steve was about to protest that he didn't want to be anybody's charity case when there was a knock on the door.

The door opened to reveal a tall, dark-haired man with an armful of clothing. "I thought you could probably use this," he said, hefting the bundle of fabric.

"Thanks," Steve said. He accepted the clothing, turning to set it on the exam table.

The dark-haired man looked Steve up and down slowly. "I called my secretary and had her buy some things for you. She guessed at the sizes, but I think it should all fit."

"Thanks," Steve repeated. He studied the other man in turn. His hair and closely-trimmed goatee were black, and he was only a little shorter than Steve, broad through the shoulders, but otherwise leanly built. His face was angular, with sharply cut cheekbones, and his eyes were a dark blue-grey color. Steve had no idea who he was. "Do you work for Mr. Stark?"

The man grinned, and Steve revised his estimate of his age down a few years; despite the facial hair, he was probably Steve's age or younger.

"I am Mr. Stark," he said. "But don't call me that. The people I'd like to hear it from all refuse to, and it would just be strange coming from someone who wasn't on my board of directors. Everyone calls me Tony."

"If you came down here to poke at him, you're too late," Pym said. "The medical exam's over, and I think he's been through more than enough for one day."

"I'm fine, really," Steve said. This was Tony Stark, the Avengers' wealthy benefactor? He was barely into his twenties. Steve looked him over once more; taking in the open shirt collar, loose tie, and rumpled hair. Stark must have inherited all that money, he decided.

"I just came down to bring clothes, I swear," Stark said. He smirked at Pym. "_I_ was planning on waiting a few hours before I asked if I could have a look at his shield."

"This was a medical examination," Pym protested. "I wanted to make sure he was all right after that much time in the ice. It was not just an excuse to indulge my scientific curiosity. _I_ have some restraint."

This had the ring of an oft-repeated argument, and Steve doubted it actually had much to do with him. These two men clearly knew each other better than Stark's apparent role as simple financial backer would suggest.

"I also have test results to analyze," Pym added, raising his eyebrows at Stark.

"I get the hint, Highpockets." Stark turned to Steve, putting a hand on his bare arm. "Come on, put the clothes on so you won't shock Jarvis, and I'll give you the tour.

Steve inspected the pile of folded clothing more carefully. Denim jeans, a blue cotton undershirt, underwear, and socks.

"I had no idea what shoe size you wore," Stark said, as Steve pulled off the remains of his leather pants and started donning the new clothing. "Sorry."

"That's all right," Steve said. "I like my boots." The red boots were familiar, and right now, Steve was glad of it. He began pulling the t-shirt over his head. "Who is Jarvis?"

"Technically, he's the butler," the blue fabric of the shirt blocked Steve's view of Stark, but he sounded as if he was smiling. "In point of fact, he's here to run my life, because he seems to think I can't be trusted to do it myself."

Steve finished pulling on the shirt, and stepped into his boots, stamping each foot once to settle them on his feet. "The butler," he repeated.

"If you want my opinion," Pym said, "I think he thinks that none of us can run our own lives."

The Avengers had their own butler. Like Batman. Iron Man had said that they were a little like the Invaders, but Steve wasn't seeing many similarities, beyond the fact that they had costumes and powers. For one thing, no one had called him an "ignorant human" yet.

Namor had been very fond of that phrase. He liked to present himself as very much a Prince of Atlantis, and preferred to ignore the fact that he was half-human himself.

The Invaders -- Steve, Bucky, Namor, Jim Hammond, and Toro -- only functioned as a team when they were assigned joint missions. Most of the time, it was just Steve and Bucky; he spent almost as much time on missions with the army's Howling Commando special operations unit as he did with Jim and Namor.

These people lived together; they had a permanent headquarters, with staff. From the conversations he'd overheard while on the submarine, Thor, Iron Man, Pym, and Wasp were, if not friends, at least all friendly. Even Stark, their financier, seemed to be more of a colleague than a boss or business partner.

"Right," Steve said. "I'm ready for that tour now."

The mansion was huge, far bigger than four people really needed, but it wasn't as intimidatingly opulent as some of the manor houses Steve had seen in England. There were none of the giant, gold-framed mirrors or dark, ancient oil paintings of long-dead relatives that Steve had half-expected. It also helped that the furniture was plain varnished wood instead of carved and gilded; he'd always thought gilt was ugly, anyway.

Last year, he and Bucky had stayed overnight in French chateau. A Nazi general had been using it as his field headquarters, but all of the original seventeenth and eighteenth century furniture had still been there. Steve had been afraid to touch it.

"This place was built around the turn of the century by a steel magnate," Stark said, as he led Steve through the front hall. The ceiling was two stories high, and a wide, grand staircase with an ornate metal railing swept up to the second floor. "My father bought it in the early seventies. I pretty much grew up here. I couldn't possibly live in this huge old place alone, though, and I wanted it to be used for something good." He nodded towards the staircase, lips quirking. "I broke my collarbone when I was five, trying to slide down that railing."

"I grew up in an apartment building on the lower East Side," Steve offered in turn. "So there weren't any railings to slide down. I fell off the fire escape once when I was eight, though. I had to get stitches in my knee." He'd been playing Robin Hood with Arnie, the kid from across the street. His mother had been less than thrilled, since they hadn't been allowed out on the fire escape in the first place.

"All those years reading about you in school, I never pictured you taking a dive off a fire escape." Stark sounded amused, smiling a little.

Steve looked away, feeling his face heat. "I can't believe people still read about me."

Stark pointed at a deep gouge carved into the wooden floorboards just at the base of the stairs. "That's from Thor's hammer. I thought Jarvis was going to kill him. It's the only time I've ever seen Thor look intimidated."

Stark's next words, whatever they might have been, were cut off by a loud banging from the front door.

Steve flinched, dropping automatically into a crouch and reaching for his shield. Beside him, Stark stiffened, freezing in place.

A dignified-looking middle-aged man in a dark suit emerged from one of the side hallways, hurrying toward the door, and Steve forced himself to relax. It was just a knock on the door, nothing to get excited over.

Stark's rigid posture eased, and he, too, began striding toward the door. Steve frowned; the other man had jumped at the sudden noise like a soldier on the verge of combat fatigue. Maybe the fancy armored bodyguard wasn't just for show.

Before either Stark or the other man -- presumably Jarvis -- could reach it, the door was flung open, rebounding off the far wall with a crash. A tall, barrel-chested man in a black, military-style uniform stood framed in the doorway. He had an eye-patch, Steve noted, and grey streaks as his temples.

"Stark," he growled in a familiar voice, stabbing a familiar unlit cigar in Stark's direction. "I told ya you were gonna lose those contracts if ya didn't bring that hunk a' ice straight to SHIELD. Was that too obscure fer ya?"

Steve blinked. The figure in the doorway remained the same. "Nick?" The last time he'd seen Sergeant Nick Fury, it had been in a bar in Paris. Fury had been in grimy combat fatigues, cheerfully knocking a marine unconscious with a beer bottle. The eye-patch and grey hair were new, and he was noticeably cleaner, though no less ill-shaven, but he definitely didn't look sixty years older.

Nick gaped at him. "Rogers? Don't tell me they already thawed ya out?" He rounded on Stark. "Ya were supposed to turn him over to the proper authorities, which in this case, is me." He stabbed a thumb at his chest.

"Did I hear you right, Nick?" a second, even taller and larger man stepped into the doorway, elbowing Nick to one side. "My god, Cap!" Like Nick, Dum Dum Dugan looked almost unchanged from the last time Steve had seen him (in his case, striding out of that Parisian bar with Nick's unconscious body slung over one massive shoulder). He had the same battered bowler hat and flaming red mustache that he'd worn as long as Steve had known him.

Nick ignored him, still glaring. "Dragging him back here is practically kidnapping."

Stark raised his eyebrows. "I don't know," he said. "Considering that he was discovered in international waters by a Stark Enterprises employee operating a Stark Enterprises-owned submarine... technically, under international salvage law, Captain America here is my property." He turned slightly and smirked at Steve, signaling that he was joking.

Steve found himself grinning back. Stark was clearly quick on the uptake, as well as possessed of a backbone. Very few people actually argued with Nick Fury, and even fewer of them were successful. The only people Steve had seen do it with impunity were the other Howling Commandos, and of them, only Dum Dum Dugan, Nick's second-in-command, had ever won.

"Ah, enough 'a that," Dugan said. He shoved Nick out of the way and crossed the entry hall to Steve in two long strides, grabbing him up in a bearhug. "We all thought you were dead," he said, pounding Steve vigorously between the shoulder blades.

Steve thumped him on the back, smiling so hard it hurt his face. "Dum Dum, can't breathe."

Dugan released him, and Steve took a step back, shaking his head. "Bucky always said you and Nick were going to make a deal with the devil someday, but I never actually believed him. Not that I'm not glad to see you, but... how are you here?" Steve asked.

"And not old and decrepit, you mean?" Dugan nodded towards Nick. "Ask him. It's a damn long story."

"You're not the only government science project running around now," Nick said.

Dugan was regarding him more serious now. "I'm sorry about what happened to Barnes," he said. "He was a good kid."

Steve stared down at the polished wooden floor. The lines between the floorboards blurred and wavered for a second. He blinked, hard, and looked back up at Dugan. "He was," he said quietly, wondering if the words sounded so strained to everyone else.

"Come on back to HQ with me and I'll get ya a place to sleep while we get yer life straightened back out," Nick said, clapping Steve on the shoulder with what stopped just short of being bruising force.

"Or you can stay here for the time being and go by the barber shop in the morning," Stark put in. "It's nearly eight o' clock already; it's not like anything will be getting done tonight." He waved a hand at the massive staircase. "There's plenty of space."

Steve looked from Stark to the two Howling Commandos. From what he'd heard from the Avengers about SHIELD, it was some sort of secret military organization, which had something to do with espionage or guerilla warfare. He liked Nick and Dugan, but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to immediately hand himself over to the custody of a secret government organization that was apparently run by Sergeant Fury. He'd had enough of government labs for one lifetime. "Thank you," he said. "I'd like that."

"Fine," Nick growled. He turned to Stark. "Stark, we need to go over the plans for my new headquarters. You can bring him and them around at 0900 hours."

* * *

The Avengers Mansion hadn't been overwhelming in the light of day, but in the middle of the night, it was vast and echoing.

Steve had tried to sleep, but instead had tossed and turned, waking up over and over from dreams he was glad he couldn't remember. He had finally given up, and now was wandering the halls, trying not to feel sorry for himself.

The big, old building felt completely deserted. Thor had disappeared somewhere shortly after they'd all arrived in New York that afternoon, and Dr. Pym and Wasp had gone to bed several hours ago, someplace in one of the Mansion's many, many rooms.

Tony Stark had left for his apartment, apparently located much closer to Stark Enterprises' offices, and Steve had no idea where Iron Man was. Guarding Stark's apartment, maybe.

He was starting to wish he had gone with Nick and Dugan after all. On the one hand, he hadn't wanted to be stuck in some government lab, but on the other, being a military operation, SHIELD headquarters would have had people around at all hours.

Steve had wandered through a grand ballroom that had been converted to a gymnasium, an atrium, and past what had very obviously once been bedrooms. Then he had taken the back stairway down to the first floor, with a vague idea of finding the kitchen. Instead, he had found what seemed like miles of empty hallways, the art deco wall sconces casting weird shadows in the half-light that streamed in from the windows.

He turned a corner, and found himself staring straight at his own reflection in a large, gilt-framed mirror. He managed not to jump, but only just. Further down the hall, one of the doors was open, light pooling out onto the dark, Oriental rug that lined the hallway.

Steve hesitated, not wanting to disturb whichever of the Avengers it might be, then decided that, if they'd really wanted privacy, they would have closed the door.

The lit room was clearly a library, tall wooden bookcases lining each wall. Iron Man, still wearing his red and gold metal armor, was sitting in a high-backed armchair, reading a book.

He looked up when Steve entered the room. "Cap," he said, in that slightly hollow voice. "You're up late. Is everything all right? Is there anything you need?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Steve said. Iron Man had been nice to him, but Steve had known him for less than a day. He wasn't going to burden him with his problems, and certainly wasn't going to mention nightmares that he himself could barely even remember. "I just couldn't sleep."

"I know how that feels," Iron Man said. The mask made it impossible to see his expression, which was still a little disconcerting.

Steve took a seat on the low couch across from him. "This place is pretty empty at night."

"I think that's why Stark let us use it." Iron Man closed his book, setting it down on an end table. "I know I wouldn't want to live here by myself."

"No," Steve agreed. The light from the reading lamp at Iron Man's elbow reflected dully off his red breastplate. It struck Steve suddenly as strange that he was wearing his armor at this time of night, for something as simple as sitting up with a book. Even though he was fairly sure by this point that Iron Man really was a man and not a robot, it was possible that he couldn't take the armor off. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe he'd had polio, or been badly scarred in an accident while working for Stark, and the armor concealed some hidden affliction.

"When I signed on for this job, I didn't expect it to come with so many perks. For one thing, I never thought I'd end up with a team. And none of us every dreamed that we'd find you."

It did sound like a good job, coming as it did with an automatic roof over your head and a team to guard your back. It was also a dangerous job, if the various long and rambling stories Thor had told him on the submarine had been at all accurate.

Steve had a lot of experience with dangerous jobs; they were all he'd done since the war started. He'd never made any real plans for what he would do with his life once the war was over, beyond little things like walking through Central Park, or eating at the Rainbow Room just once, or watching the Dodgers play again -- which, according to Iron Man, was impossible now -- because he'd never really thought beyond the end of the war -- hadn't entirely expected to see the other side of it.

He'd expected to go down fighting, not to have someone else take the fall for him.

But now the war was long over, and the army would have no need for a supersoldier anymore, except maybe as a lab experiment, and he didn't need Dr. Pym to tell him not to agree to that. The only other thing Steve was qualified for was working as a copy artist for an advertising firm, and he hadn't wanted to spend his life behind a desk even before the war.

He hadn't signed on to be Captain America; he'd just wanted to be a soldier, to do his part. But he knew he was a heck of a lot better at _being_ Captain America than he ever would have been at being an artist.

The Avengers had chosen to be superheroes, without any war for them to fight, and with this thorough a set-up, they obviously expected to spend a long time doing this.

"Thor and the others," Steve started, "they all have superpowers."

Iron Man nodded.

"But you don't?" Steve made it a question, though he was relatively certain he was right. If he had powers, he wouldn't need that armor.

"No." Iron Man spread his hands. "I'm just a guy in a tin suit."

Steve nodded. "So, why do you do this? When I volunteered for the supersoldier program, I just wanted to join the war effort. To serve my country."

"The same reason, I guess." Iron Man shrugged metal-covered shoulders ever-so-slightly. "I wanted to help people. I've been very lucky; something happened to me about a year ago. I should have died, but I didn't, and now I have to earn that, to be worthy of that. I'm just glad Tony Stark's armor's given me the chance to."

So there was something wrong with him under that metal shell, Steve thought. "Back when I come from, and doesn't that sound strange to say," and stranger still to think, "people didn't do this. It's like something out of Superman. The Submariner, the Human Torch, and I, we did it because we were fighting something that was terribly evil. What is there to fight now? Other than this Hulk monster."

"Just because the war ended doesn't mean that terrible evils aren't still around," Iron Man said solemnly. "And some of those evils can't be fought by regular people, or by ordinary means." He made a little, half-laughing sound. "Sorry. This kind of thing probably isn't going to help you sleep."

That wasn't entirely true. Even though it was sad to think that the end of the war hadn't eradicated the need for people like Steve, if there were still threats that could only be handle by an Iron Man, or a Thor, then Steve might still have a purpose, even if it meant having to carry on alone.

"That's all right," he said.

Iron Man waved a hand, taking in the library around them. "When I can't sleep, reading sometimes helps." He stood, walked over to one of the bookshelves, and pulled out a book, holding it out to Steve.

Steve rose to his feet and crossed the room to take the book. _"The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,"_ he read aloud. "I used to love these when I was a kid." They were great adventure stories with lots of wonderful visual detail, and he'd wanted to be just like Holmes and Watson; when Steve had been ten, he and Arnie had sworn they were going to move to London and live in an apartment on Baker Street and solve mysteries when they grew up. Then _Hell's Angels_ had come out, and Steve had decided that he wanted to be a fighter pilot. Arnie had never quite forgiven him for that. "How did you guess?"

"I didn't." Iron Man shook his head, shrugging. "I just always liked the way Holmes always had a logical solution at the end."

"Thanks," Steve said again. "I'll let you get back to your book. See you in the morning."

Iron Man nodded. "I hope that helps. You should probably try to get some sleep before you're subjected to Nick Fury again."

"You too," Steve said, smiling, and left the library, book in hand.

Back in the room he was staying in, Steve sat against the bed's wooden headboard and turned on the bedside lamp, opening the book to the first page.

_"Happy 8th birthday, Tony,"_ was written on the inside of the front cover in a carefully looping hand. "Love, your mother."

Steve flipped to the table of contents; 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' was at the end of the book. He found the first page, and began to read.

_"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not-infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table..."_

* * *

"Well," Tony observed, as the elevator that had taken them up from SHIELD's underground headquarters came to a halt on the ground floor, "That was less painful that it could have been."

The elevator door opened, and the five of them stepped out into a supply closet. SHIELD's main headquarters were hidden underneath a barber's shop in the East Village; you reached them through a secret elevator located in the back of the supply closet, behind a shelf of shampoo. The emergency entrance was a trick barber's chair that dropped down to the lower level via a trapdoor. Tony was in complete sympathy with Nick Fury's desire for a new base of operations.

"Yes," Hank said. "We could have had to talk to ten army generals instead of only five."

He was wearing civilian clothing -- they all were, except Thor, who didn't _have_ civilian clothing -- but Tony suspected that he had his costume on underneath.

"Sorry," Cap said.

Jan ignored both him and Hank. "I know," she said. "Fury could have actually followed through on his threat to take away your contracts."

"And give them back to Hammer Industries?" Tony raised his eyebrows. "They're the only other private company with the capacity and knowledge to make adamantium, and Fury's pretty sure they're secretly providing it to Victor Von Doom." Not to mention that Justin Hammer's engineering department was nowhere near capable of meeting the technological requirements for Fury's new project. Tony was probably going to end up asking Dr. Reed Richards for help with the anti-matter containment for the fuel system as it was.

He was pretty sure Fury hadn't gotten around to informing Hammer of whom exactly he'd chosen to build his new HQ yet; the old tycoon hadn't yet called Tony up to froth.

"I'd say Nick's bark is worse than his bite, but it's really not." Cap stepped around a box of after-shave and reached for the closet door. "I didn't expect the army to have so many questions, though."

"Most people who go MIA don't re-appear in the same condition sixty years later," Hank said. "Just be glad they were satisfied with the fingerprints and bloodtyping, and didn't demand a tissue sample. The only reason they didn't do a DNA test was because they have anything to match it to."

The SHIELD doctors had had a field day with Cap, while several men in suits whom Tony recognized as government agents stood back and took notes. Fury had called in the U.S. military for verification, and so that they could get a start on the paperwork that would eventually get Cap declared legally alive again, and get him all of the backpay the army owed him. They had been especially interested in Cap's blood samples, though they'd hid their disappointment well when Cap insisted that they be destroyed rather than kept for study.

Tony suspected that Hank had been the one to suggest that Cap ask for that. He vaguely recalled that Hank had done a study on some aspect of the Weapon X program a few years ago.

"I had expected them to have a warmer welcome for such a renowned warrior." Thor's deep voice was disapproving. He closed the closet door firmly behind them, and Tony heard a thud as something inside the supply closet fell off a shelf.

The barber shop was used almost exclusively by SHIELD personnel, so no one looked twice when four people in street clothes and a seven foot tall man in red cape strode casually out of the closet and into the main room.

Cap hefted the small cardboard box he was carrying. "At least they gave me my things back." He glanced at his reflection in the wall-length mirror and shook his head. "I need a haircut."

Instead of the regulation-length crew cut Cap had sported in all of those old propaganda photos, his blond hair had grown out into a floppy mess, and was hanging in his eyes. It was oddly endearing.

The sun was bright overhead, the glare nearly blinding after the hours of artificial light. Tony blinked, and pulled out his cellphone to have Happy bring the car around. Judging by the wide-eyed stare Cap was wearing as he watched the cars and pedestrians go by, subjecting him to the subway might not be the best idea.

"It is midday," Thor observed. "We should find somewhere to dine."

He had scarcely spoken when two large, black vans screeched to a stop in front of them, one of them running its right front wheel up onto the sidewalk. The back doors of both vehicles were thrown open in unison, and a mass of men in dark clothing came pouring out. They were all armed with sub-automatic weapons.

Tony dropped his cellphone and flung himself behind the nearest illegally parked car as the men opened fire. He was intensely grateful for a moment that Fury didn't know that he was Iron Man, and that he'd therefore been able to bring the briefcase that held his armor along without challenge. It paid to be paranoid.

He was in the armor and out from behind the car -- a red Ford explorer -- in less then thirty seconds, the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. Jan was already in Wasp form, diving at the face of a dark-haired man who was bringing his weapon to bear on a twelve-foot-high Hank. Thor was advancing step by step on the attackers, Mjolnir a spinning wall of metal in front of him; bullets were ricocheting off it with sharp clangs.

Cap had removed his shield from the backpack that had hidden it and had somehow stripped out of his jeans and t-shirt, revealing red, white, and blue leather; there had been several spare costumes amongst the items that had been returned to him. As Tony watched, he dropped to the pavement to duck a stream of bullets, rolled to his feet again, and threw his shield, catching one of their assailants directly in the chest. He spun and kicked the gun out of the hands of a man creeping up behind him, reached up with one hand to catch his returning shield, and used it to block another gunshot. He fought as if he were dancing, every movement perfectly choreographed, economical and without wasted motion.

Tony raised his hands and triggered his repulsor beam, blasting two of the gunmen off their feet. "You've made a big mistake, fellows," he said, letting the equipment in his helmet amplify the words. "Who sent you? I hope he's paying you well."

The "low power" warning chime sounded inside his helmet. Tony ignored it. He hadn't charged his armor's power cells that morning. He hadn't thought he'd need to.

One of the men, dark-haired and tanned, was struggling back to his feet, cursing in what sounded like a mix of Spanish and German. His companion, a blond with a brutally short buzz cut, stayed on the ground, unmoving.

"Bullets are futile against the power of the mighty Mjolnir!" Thor shouted. He hit one of the gunmen with his hammer; the man was lifted off his feet and went sailing into two of his companions.

After that, it was mostly a matter of cleaning up. A few minutes later, most of the men were on the ground, groaning, save for one whom Hank was holding upside down, several feet off the ground. He was at least fifteen feet tall now, bigger than Tony had ever seen him grow to.

"Nice job, Highpockets," Tony told him.

Hank gave him a funny look. "I've been thinking," he observed conversationally. "I don't think my code name should be Ant-Man anymore."

_"¡Libereme¡Dejeme!"_ the man yelled. He was young, and almost as blond as Cap.

"I was wondering about that," Cap said. "Why _is_ your code name Ant-Man? You look more like a 'Giant-Man' to me."

Hank shrugged, accidentally shaking the man he was holding, who cursed at him. "I used to shrink down, like Jan. And I have a helmet that lets me talk to ants."

Cap nodded. "That sounds reasonable." Going by the baffled expression on his face, he thought it was anything but. People tended to react that way when Hank gave his "I talk to ants" explanation. Tony would have, too, if he hadn't seen them in action.

Jan fluttered over to land on Hank's shoulder, peering down at the upside-down man. "He thought ants might be useful in crime fighting."

Cap nodded again, clearly still baffled. He crouched down, putting himself face to face with Hank's prisoner. "Who are you? Why were you sent to kill us?"

"Viva El Presidente," the man snarled, and ground his teeth together.

"Stop him," Tony called out, stepping forward, but it was too late. The man had already gone limp, obviously dead.

"Cyanide," Cap said, straightening. "There must have been a capsule inside his mouth."

"They are all dead," Thor announced gravely.

Tony glanced down at the pavement. Hank had obviously relieved the dead man of his weapon, and it was now lying forgotten in the street. The ugly black gun had a wide stock and a long barrel, and was composed largely of dense, high-tech plastic. It would be able to pass through an airport metal detector un-noticed.

"Someone spent a lot of money to arm these men," he said.

Cap turned to him, frowning. "Where's your boss? He was standing right next to me."

"I, ah, flew him to safety," Tony said quickly. "He called me as soon as the shooting started." There was a sudden hollow ringing in his ears, and a sharp stab of pain in the center of his chest. The words "Warning: power at 0.5" appeared in the lower left-hand corner of his vision, courtesy of the helmet's display system.

"Iron Man! Are you all right? Were you injured?"

Cap sounded upset, or maybe angry. Why was he angry? Tony closed his eyes against the pain and hissed a subvocalized command shutting down half the armor's systems, and activating the short-term emergency battery.

The pain lessened immediately, as a surge of power flowed into his chest device, and the electromagnetic field that kept the shrapnel in his heart from killing him returned to full strength. It would only stay that way for a few minutes. He needed to recharge.

"Iron Man?"

Tony opened his eyes. Cap had grabbed him by the elbow and was holding him upright.

"I'm fine," he said, straightening and pulling away. "I just need some mechanical assistance. I think one of my transistors is broken." He opened a satellite line to Happy. "Hap, bring the boss's car. The emergency model. We've had some complications."

"Low battery?" There was a clear note of concern underlying the amusement in Happy's voice. "You know Pep said you should recharge more often."

"I hate you both," Tony informed him. "Just bring the damned car." The "emergency" model had a hidden outlet that he could connect the armor's power supply to, allowing him to run it -- and, by extension, his chest device -- off the car's battery for the duration of the ride.

"Captain America is correct," Thor said, peering at Tony with a frown. "You... seem unwell. Are you sure you were not wounded in the battle?"

"I said I was fine," Tony protested.

He was saved by Nick Fury, as SHIELD agents flooded out of the building and into the street. "What the hell is this?" Fury shouted, bursting out of the barber shop with gun in hand.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Hank said, shrinking slowly back to his usual height. His clothes had disappeared, probably torn apart, leaving him in just the red Ant-Man costume.

Tony looked around, taking in their fallen attackers; there were nearly two dozen of them, their limp bodies littering the street and sidewalk. Hank was right. They had no idea who was after them, but they had been able to deal with these men easily. The four of them had always fought well together, but with Cap there, they had been better than ever, better than the addition of a single person ought to have accounted for.

Cap had nowhere to go in this time, save for back to the army, and had obviously been feeling a little lost. If the others had no objections, Tony decided, the Avengers should ask him to stay.

* * *

"So, once again, you have failed me, Hammer."

Justin Hammer gritted his teeth, and forced down the desire to snap that the intelligence he had provided had been entirely accurate, and that it was, in fact, _El Presidente Heinrich Zemo's_ men who had failed. "I provided you with my former client's location," he said instead, his voice falsely mild. "I trust the information was not incorrect?"

"The location was indeed correct," El Presidente's voice was harsh. "However, none of the other information had any bearing upon reality, and it is thanks to you that Rogers, rather than being securely in my possession, is running around at liberty, unfrozen and alive. This is precisely what you promised to prevent."

"My source in SHIELD informed me that Stark, Ant-Man, the Wasp, and Thor were going to deliver Rogers to the barbershop. They said nothing about him being awake, or about Iron Man's presence." It was common knowledge that Colonel Fury wouldn't allow Stark to bring his bodyguard on SHIELD premises; Fury didn't allow non-military personnel to enter his headquarters under arms, especially not private mercenaries, which is what Stark's tin-plated toy essentially was. Even accounting for the man's jet-boots, Stark shouldn't have been able to summon him so quickly.

Stark... The damned brat was everywhere Hammer looked, the spanner in the works every time he turned around. He had built Hammer Industries from the ground up, had started out as a boy little older than Stark, arriving in New York from London after the war with little more than the clothes on his back. He'd worked for everything he had.

Anthony Stark was a spoiled playboy who'd never had to work for a damn thing in his life. There was a reason Howard Stark had been disappointed in him.

Hammer had counted on the SHIELD raid to keep him in El Presidente's good graces; he needed that cheap Vespugian oil, or Hammer Industries would go under. And Stark's flashy bodyguard has ruined everything.

And, as if it weren't enough that he'd stolen the SHIELD security and weapon contracts from behind Hammer's back, Stark had also snatched up the chance to design and construct SHIELD's new headquarters. Probably the most lucrative defense bid of the past twenty years, and Hammer hadn't even heard a whisper about it until this morning, when the _Daily Bugle_ had run a notice in the back of their business section, announcing Fury's intent to shift to a more visible base of operation in the same sentence that it revealed that this new contract had already been awarded to Stark Enterprises.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd still been dealing with Howard. He'd been another self-made man, even if he had bought himself respectability by marrying that Carbonell woman. Howard Stark had been a man one could lose to without losing face.

"I am surprised to hear you taking this so lightly, Justin," El Presidente spat. "After all, this will shortly be your problem, as well. I have heard you complaining about these so-called 'Avengers' of yours, but I can assure you that Rogers is worse by far. Vespugia is several thousand kilometers away from him. You, on the other hand, are separated from him by a mere handful of city blocks."

"Do you really think Hammer Industries has anything to fear from some World War II hero?" El Presidente's arrogance blinded him to the fact that his concerns were not everyone's; he liked to style himself as a national leader, but he was little more than an aging plutocrat, whose hold over people only went so far. "My company has never been convicted of any wrongdoing. I am not a Nazi war criminal hiding in the Amazon jungle."

"No," El Presidente's whispery voice dropped to a low purr, "but, my dear Justin, you are working for one. And if you wish to continue doing so, you will see to it that Rogers is nobody's problem."

"Rogers is a relic," Hammer said. Much as Heinrich Zemo was. _"My_ men should have no problem with him." He snapped his cell phone closed before El Presidente could reply.

He would deal with Steve Rogers; Justin Hammer was a man who kept his word. But first, he would handle Anthony Stark. No one made a fool of Justin Hammer without paying for it.

* * *

"I see that you returned safely," Jarvis said, as he held the door open for Steve. Even after nearly four days at the Avengers Mansion, Steve still couldn't get used to the fact that there was a real, live butler to open the door for him. It helped that Edwin Jarvis was extremely nice. "I trust you had no trouble finding your way around, sir?"

Steve shook his head. "I found my way back to Nick's barbershop just fine." There were a few more subway lines than he remembered, but sorting them out hadn't been difficult. The only confusing part of the trip had been the tiny, portable telephones everyone around had been talking on continuously; according to Iron Man, they were called "cellphones" and worked via some kind of radio wave. Or possibly magic, Steve wasn't entirely sure. The explanation had been highly technical and had involved a lot of hand gestures.

It had been extremely disconcerting to keep hearing respectable-looking men in suits apparently talking to themselves.

"The others are in the conference room," Jarvis went on, taking Steve's new trench coat -- Steve had the feeling he'd have had to wrestle the man for it if he'd wanted to keep wearing it -- and folding it carefully over one arm.

"Oh. Um, where is the conference room?"

"Upstairs and to the left." Jarvis nodded toward the grand staircase. "I'm sure you'll be able to hear them."

Steve could, in fact, hear the assembled Avengers before he reached the room; Thor's voice carried clearly even though the mansion's heavy wooden doors.

"I am greatly relieved to learn that there have been no signs of my kinsman. May he languish a thousand more years in captivity."

Steve knocked, for form's sake, and then opened the door. Beyond it was a medium-sized room with a large, round table in the center, made out of some kind of dark wood. The four Avengers were seated around it, all of them in costume. There was a fifth chair sitting empty between Iron Man and Thor.

"I see you've escaped SHIELD's clutches again," Pym observed. "Come in and sit down. We've been waiting for you."

Steve took a seat in the only available chair, intensely aware that everybody's eyes were on him.

"How did it go with Fury?" Jan asked. She had shrunk down to five or six inches in height and was perched on the edge of the table.

Steve took a deep breath. He had rehearsed what he was going to say on the train, but that didn't make the decision any easier. It wasn't as if he had a lot of options, though. "The army bureaucracy is still trying to decide whether being dead removed me from active duty or not, but I think they're coming down on the side of removal." He stared down at his hands, then looked back up at the Avengers. They had all been more than kind to him, and he couldn't in good conscience impose on them any longer. "The doctors cleared me for active duty, though, and Nick's offered me a job with SHIELD. I haven't agreed yet, but I've, ah, decided to take it." It wasn't as if he had any other marketable skills, and according to Nick and Dugan, he would be doing some of the same kinds of things he'd done before, during the war.

He still wasn't entirely sure that it was actually what he wanted to do. Either he would be working alone, which he'd never liked, or taking orders from someone, which he'd never been good at; Nick wouldn't put him charge of anyone until he'd proven himself, which he would have to do all over again.

"And I just want you all to know," he went on, "that I'm very grateful for your hospitality over the past few days."

"You sound uncertain, my friend," Thor said, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "You are our comrade in arms, now; you may lodge with us as long as you like."

Steve knew he was staring at Thor stupidly, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He had never expected this. They barely even knew him, had only seen him in action once.

Jan smiled. "I think what Thor is trying to say, is that if you would like to join the team, you're more than welcome to."

"Thank you," he finally managed. "That's very nice, but you shouldn't feel obligated-"

"I don't take advantage of it myself," Jan said, ignoring him, "but Avengers draw a salary and are offered living quarters in the Mansion."

"Don't be an idiot," Pym added. "You're Captain America; you're a living legend. And you made us breakfast yesterday." He grinned, but Steve thought he was only partially joking.

"You're the only person I've ever seen Jarvis let use his stove," Iron Man put in solemnly. "If you don't want to throw yourself upon the mercy of SHIELD, you'd be a valuable addition to the team, and we'd be proud to have you."

Steve could feel his face heating. He glanced away for a second, rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. "I'd like that," he stammered finally. "I'd be honored to join you." When they had first told him that he was sixty years out of time, and that everything he knew was gone, it had seemed a little like the end of the world, like there was nothing left for him. But maybe here, with these people, he could make something new for himself.

* * *

_The End_ of part one.


	2. A Date to Astonish

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.2  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon **

**Pairings:** Hank/Jan.

**Rated:** PG  
**Warnings:** ... Fluff?  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** AU conceived as a modern retelling of early Avengers. Of course, there are about six seasons planned, so it won't end up mirroring canon completely.  
**Summary:** Hank and Jan's attempt at a date is less than successful.

Thanks to tavella for the beta job.

* * *

Late August in New York was breathlessly hot; it hadn't rained in a week, despite the air's humidity, and there wasn't the hint of a breeze to be found. It was hot enough that Jan was beginning to wish she hadn't worn her Wasp costume under her sundress, or that she'd insisted she and Hank sit in the café's air-conditioned interior, and never mind the fact that the street-side table was more romantic. At least her straw sunhat gave her a tiny bit of shade.

The romantic potential seemed to be completely lost on Hank, anyway. Not only had he not dressed up, he hadn't even noticed Jan's sundress, unless commenting that it was very pink counted. Nor had he noticed that she'd gotten a new haircut. He'd noticed the new earrings, but that was only because they were shaped like ladybugs.

The two of them were currently sitting at one of the café's small, round tables, a pair of menus open between them, talking about "work."

"I've been thinking," Hank was saying, staring absently at the menu, "our uniforms are impregnated with Pym particles and shrink or grow with us, right?"

"Right," Jan agreed. "And thank God. It would be much harder to get people to take us seriously if we were naked." She smiled teasingly, inviting Hank to smile back.

"Yes!" Hank nodded, and waved one hand at her. "Your costume shrinks down because it's touching you when you activate the Pym particles. But I've been thinking; if I can find a way to extend the effect of the mass-transfer to a wider area, make it require less bodily contact, then anything that you're touching that's been treated with the particles ought to be able to shrink."

Jan nodded at him, gesturing with one hand for him to go on.

"If I can figure out how to do that, we can take things with us when we shrink! All you'd have to do it grab the object, shrink down while holding it, and then return it to normal size when you grew again." He mimed grabbing something, then raised and lowered one hand to indicate the size changing process. "I might even be able to get an object to remain miniaturized after I've changed back."

That honestly would be pretty useful. One persistent problem with the Wasp form was that, even though she could fly, she was too small to carry much of anything with her. "Or get something to grow and leave it giant-sized?" she suggested, starting to get into the discussion despite the fact that it wasn't what she'd intended to spend their lunch date talking about.

Hank shook his head. "That would be more complicated. Not impossible, but I haven't been able get growing to work as smoothly as shrinking yet."

"I don't know about that," Jan said, giving him a flirtatious smile. "I think you looked pretty good facing off against those gunmen the other day."

"Not as good as Captain America." Hank shook his head once more, this time with what looked like bemusement. "I've never seen anyone move like that. I've studied the super-soldier serum; it enhances your reflexes and endurance, but it doesn't give you any actual super powers beyond a minor healing factor. I never realized how good he was. He's going be a valuable addition to the team."

"Those old black and white news reels and propaganda posters just don't prepare you for the real deal," Jan agreed. "But then, I've always had a thing for tall, blond men," she went on, arching her eyebrows and hoping that Hank would finally get the hint.

"I can be tall," he said, sounding slightly wounded.

Arg! Why was it so hard to hit on this man? "Yes," she said. "And you're even blond." She was about to add, "and not bad-looking, either," when the waiter appeared.

"And what will the young lady be having?" he asked her, pencil poised over his order pad.

"Summer salad," she told him, "with the vinaigrette dressing. And a diet coke." As the waiter turned to Hank, she belatedly remembered that the café's dessert menu included Italian gelato, which would be nice on such a stiflingly hot day. She'd mention it when Hank was done.

Hank ordered himself a sandwich, then added, "and we'd like the blackberry gelato for desert."

"Does that meet with the lady's approval?"

Ice cream wasn't one of Hank's favorite desserts; he had to have asked for it in the hopes that she would like it. Jan beamed at the waiter. "It sounds lovely."

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Hank picked up the conversation again. "He's settling in pretty well, too. I'd thought he'd by overwhelmed be all the modern technology."

Jan shrugged, adjusting her sunhat slightly. "It probably helps that he's got Iron Man to explain how everything works to him. I never knew Iron Man was so well-versed in the way Stark Enterprise's technology operates."

"He should be," Hank said, lips twitching for a moment. "I mean, he designed it." He frowned then, adding, "Well, his boss did, and he probably heard all about it during the design phases, being Tony's bodyguard, and-"

"So you think he's Tony, too," Jan interrupted. She'd had suspicions for a while, ever since Iron Man first appeared on the scene, and they had only gotten stronger after they'd ended up working together. She had never known Tony very well, before he'd begun funding the Avengers, but what she had known had suggested that the chances of him designing something as gratuitously cool as the Iron Man armor and not trying it out himself were minimal. A man who'd built and tested his own race cars wasn't likely to pass up the chance to play around with rocketboots.

She'd had suspicions for a while, but _she_ wasn't the first one who'd voiced them. "And ha," she added, "you broke the no trying to find out each others' identities rule first."

"Some rule," Hank snorted. "Iron Man's the only one of us who has a secret identity. Unless Thor takes off his helmet and poses as a mild-mannered reporter or something, which I doubt."

"Good point. All right, spill. Why do _you_ think he's Tony?"

"You first," Hank returned.

"The two of us spent a significant portion of our childhood being dragged to the same dull society events, where I had to act cute while doddering old businessmen pinched my cheeks. Tony spent the entire year he was nine -- or maybe ten -- hiding in the cloakroom with a bunch of homemade robots. There's no way he'd give up his chance to play real life robot to some hired employee."

Hank nodded. "Makes sense, I guess."

"So how did you guess?"

Hank grinned, and spread his hands out. "Have you ever heard anyone else call me 'Highpockets?'"

"Actually, no." Now that he'd pointed it out, she'd never heard anyone other than Tony refer to Hank that way until Iron Man had called him that during the fight outside Fury's barber shop. "What does that name even mean?"

"You've got me." Hank shrugged. "He came up with it the first time we met, at one of those big scientific conferences. I was demonstrating the results of some of the early Pym particle experiments, and he was showing off some of SE's new miniaturized circuitry patents. I didn't bother to ask why; I was too busy being grateful that I wasn't the youngest or most disliked person there anymore."

"The scientific community doesn't like you because half of them are still jealous over being shown up by a graduate student." They'd been convinced that Hank's mass-transfer theory was unworkable in practice, enough so that two different universities had denied him research grants. They'd changed their tune dramatically after the first time they saw Jan shrink and fly around the room. "What's their problem with him?"

"Five minutes before one of the senior engineers from NASA was going to present, Tony took his scale display model apart and put it back together backwards. And it worked better."

"I bet the two of you were young, naïve, and adorable. You always did look cute in a lab coat."

"Really?" Hank asked, and Jan wasn't sure, but she thought he might be blushing a little. .

"Really," she told him. "Especially all hunched over a chromatograph."

Hank smiled, a sudden breath of wind ruffling his hair. He was blushing, she decided. It was adorable.

And thank god there was finally a breeze.

The wind rustled the fronds of the potted palm by the café door, blew Jan's napkin off the table, and then a sudden, harder gust swept her sunhat off her head, sending it tumbling into the street.

"Hey!" Jan yelped, jumping to her feet and making an unsuccessful grab for the hat. "That was brand new!"

Then she froze. A miniature tornado was racing towards them down the exact center of the street, cars rattling in its path. As Jan watched, an orange moped flipped over and went skidding across the sidewalk, straight into a lamppost.

"That's not natural," Hank said. He was standing too, now, frowning at the mini-twister. "New York city doesn't have the right weather patterns for-"

And then the tornado darted across to their side of the street, coming up onto the sidewalk and bearing down on them, blowing the tablecloth off the empty table in front of them before sending the entire table crashing onto its side.

The tornado halted mere feet away, and its spinning came to a halt to reveal a man in an ugly green costume, wearing a helmet with a pair of upswept fins protruding from either side. "Prepare to meet your match, Avengers," the man proclaimed, "at the hands of…" he paused dramatically, "the Human Top!"

"The Human Top?" Jan repeated. She ought to be fighting already, not standing there gaping at him, but honestly, the Human Top?

"Wouldn't something like The Twister or Tornado have been more dignified?" Hank asked.

The waiter ran out of the café, looking alarmed. "What was that crash? Is anybody-" he took one look at the "Human Top," and broke off mid-sentence. "Nevermind," he said. "I'm calling the cops, mister. Those tables are restaurant property." He turned around and darted back inside.

The Human Top snorted. "As if the cops could catch me."

"They won't need to," Hank said. He took a step toward the man, visibly increasing in height as he did so. "The two of us will take care of that part."

The Human Top laughed, and began spinning, so fast he became a green blur. "You're the one I'm here for, anyway, blondie." Hank, now at twelve feet, threw a punch with one large fist, and the green tornado-shape moved effortlessly out of the way.

Jan shrank down, out of the sundress and shoes, and launched herself into the air. He might be able to spin out of the way of a blow, but he'd find it harder to dodge her sting.

The energy blast caught the spinning blur dead center, and the Human Top came to a staggering halt, facing Jan. "I'll make you pay for that," he yelled, one hand pressed to a small burn on his shoulder. He started spinning again, directly towards her, and the wind generated by his motion blew her back into the café's blue-and-white-striped awning.

Jan grabbed hold of the fabric, bracing herself against the blast of nearly gale-force wind. All right. Flying was clearly out.

She let herself slide down the awning until she was gripping the metal bar that held up the fabric, then let herself grow back to normal size, dropping to the ground.

"Da-amn." The cat call came from inside the tornado-blur. "This job just got a lot more fun. Anything else you want to take off, baby?"

"It's like fighting the Tasmanian Devil," Jan announced, "right down to the incomprehensible grunting and snarling noises."

The Human Top darted toward Hank again, and he swung out of the way just in time, throwing another unsuccessful punch at him. "I'm expecting the drooling to start any time now," he said.

"Joke all ya want," the Human Top snapped. "You haven't even touched me yet."

"We need to slow him down somehow," Hank called to Jan, as the Human Top came at him again, this time too quickly for him to dodge. Hank went tumbling backwards over the flipped-over table, and fell to the ground with a crash, the edges of the tablecloth fluttering around him.

Tablecloth. Jan turned and snatched the cloth off the table she and Hank had been sitting at, edging closer to the Human Top as he loomed over Hank, still spinning..

"You're gonna make me a lot of money, big guy," the Human Top said, and then Jan threw the tablecloth over his head.

The fabric was immediately caught in the Human Top's vortex, whipping around him and tangling his limbs. He slowed his spin until he was clearly visible again, tugging the tablecloth free, and Hank came to his feet and tackled him into the pavement.

"Is this enough touching for you?" he asked, and then slammed the Top's face into the sidewalk, eliciting a dazed grunt from the man.

Jan could hear police sirens in the distance now; the waiter had made good on his threat to call the cops. "The cavalry's on its way, gorgeous," she said. "Let's see if we can hold him down until they get here."

Hank grew another five or six feet, and shifted his weight until he was sitting on the Top's back. Jan retrieved the tablecloth from the ground and twisted it into a makeshift rope, using it to tie his ankles together.

By the time the police got there, the waiter had brought them both their drinks. On the house.

The date hadn't been a complete failure, Jan decided, as she watched Hank sip ice water from what was now a ridiculously small glass. At least they'd gotten to do something together.

* * *

Posting Daniel Cannon's bail cost Hammer more than the man's services were actually worth, and cost even more when the expense inherent in working through intermediaries was added in. However, he couldn't afford to leave Cannon in jail; the longer the city's law enforcement personnel had to question him, and the higher the chances that Cannon would let slip who had hired him. 

Cannon was now standing in front of Hammer's desk, his idiot helmet in his hands, attempting to look contrite. "It was an honest mistake, boss. You said the guy was blond. You never said the Avengers had two blond guys. And anyway, this was the one whose picture was in the paper last month."

"The Avengers have three blond men," Hammer snapped. "I had assumed you would be capable of telling which one was Captain America, given that he wears the bloody American flag _on his chest_."

"He was in street clothes. I tailed him from the Mansion, was going to strike when the others weren't around. I didn't know the girl had powers, too. I thought she was just his date."

"Apparently, his date didn't need powers to defeat you. All she required was a tablecloth. You're fired, Cannon. I want you out of the country by tomorrow, and if I hear a whisper that you've spoken my name to anyone, I will be very, very displeased."

Cannon wasn't as stupid as he looked. He left without a word, replacing his helmet as he went.

El Presidente Zemo would be most displeased by this turn of events. El Presidente Zemo would just have to deal with disappointment. Hammer had other things on his plate than capturing Captain America.

The super soldier could wait a little while, until Hammer found a better class of hired super-power to send after him. For the time being, he would turn his attention to the thorn in his own side. Stark Enterprises.

* * *


	3. An Epic Saga

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.3 - An Epic Saga  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** ... Fluff? No slash yet.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** AU concieved as a modern retelling of early Avengers. Of course, there are about six seasons planned, so it won't end up mirroring canon completely.  
**Summary:**The Avengers decide to introduce Steve to modern culture.

**Story Note:** This and Classic-verse 1.2 both count as interludes. The plot will pick back up with the next fic, and gain speed from there.

* * *

Once upon a time, Hank had spent Saturday afternoons in his lab, not to mention Sundays and every other day of the week. Then he and Jan had joined the Avengers, and Hank had gotten the invite to stay in Tony Stark's mansion, which came complete with a state of the art lab more expensive than anything he could have afforded on his own. He would have liked to take full advantage of it, but Jan had made him swear not to spend more then six days a week there. It was important, she said, to get to know their teammates.

So now she and Hank were sitting in the living room of the newly dubbed 'Avengers Mansion,' Hank reading _The American Journal of Biochemistry_ while Jan listened to one of Thor's seemingly endless collection of long, rambling stories about frost giants.

Maybe there was something to this whole "spending less time in the lab" thing after all; when he was working in the lab, or they were both in costume, it was work, and he was just Jan's partner, Giant-Man and the Wasp, or Dr. Pym and Ms. Van Dyne. Right now, out of costume and lounging around Tony's living room, things were different. Like lunch the other day, which had felt almost like a date until the Human Top had shown up to crash things.

Jan was so far out of his league as to be almost untouchable, but Hank couldn't help hoping. They worked well together, after all and she obviously thought of him as a friend, which was a start. He knew she was joking with all the "Handsome" and "Blue Eyes" comments, but at least it wasn't mean-spirited joking.

"I can certainly understand our friend's plight," Thor was saying in the bass rumble that was his attempt at speaking softly. "Each time I return to Midgard after a lengthy absence, I must become acclimated to its customs all over again. They change so rapidly."

Okay, clearly Jan and Thor were not talking about frost giants anymore; what had Hank missed?

"Cap's been dealing with it pretty well, all things considered," Jan said, "but he still looks shell-shocked half the time." She smiled slightly. "You know, we should do something about that. Show him the fun side of 21st century culture."

"As opposed to the fact that subway fare costs two dollars instead of five cents?" Hank offered. He'd heard Cap rant about that at length the other day, and couldn't really blame him.

"He's around here somewhere, and I bet Iron Man," and here Jan gave Hank a significant look and a conspiratorial grin, "is too. We should find them and all watch a movie or something. There are lots of classics made after 1945 that Cap's never seen."

"_The Godfather, Star Wars, The Graduate_," Hank started listing movies, counting them off on his fingers, "_Psycho, Apollo 13, The Day the Earth Stood Still, Jurassic Park, Them!-"_

"Ancient sci-fi B movies are not classics," Jan interrupted.

"Actually," Iron Man's slightly hollow voice came from the doorway, "_The Day the Earth Stood Still_ is considered one of the best science fiction movies of all time." He paused, as if considering something, then added, "_It Came From Beneath The Sea_ is better than _Them!_, though."

"_Them!_ has a great mystery plot," Hank protested. "_It Came From Beneath the Sea_ just has a stop animation octopus that doesn't even have the right number of tentacles."

"I'm sorry," Iron Man said, "but why are we talking about old movies?"

"We have decided to select several films and make Captain America watch them," Thor announced.

"I thought it would be a gentler introduction to modern culture then he's been getting," Jan added.

"We need to show him Star Wars," Iron Man said immediately. Hank was pretty sure that, under that red and gold mask, Tony grinning in anticipation. "He'd get a kick out of the space Nazis."

"We can't introduce him to new science fiction until he's seen some of the classics," Hank said. If it really was Tony inside that armor, he ought to have known better than to even suggest that. "You can't fully appreciate the subtleties of 80s, 90s, and new science fiction until you've learned the basic truth that aliens are always communist."

Thor frowned. "Why are they communist? And I had been given to understand that Star Wars was considered a classic." He sounded disapproving, as if Hank had insulted him in some way.

"It can't be." Cap appeared in the doorway behind Iron Man, a book in one hand. Like Hank and Jan, he was out of costume. "I've never heard of it."

"That's because it's from the nineteen seventies," Jan told him. "And anyway, it's only a classic if you're a geek."

"It seemed to me a most excellent film," Thor muttered, sounding not quite sullen.

"You've seen Star Wars?" Iron Man asked him, sounding surprised.

Jan turned to Cap, smiling brightly. "So, what are you reading?"

Cap stuck the book behind his back, his ears turning pink. "The Hobbit," he said. "I know it's a kids' book, but I've always liked it."

"You know," Iron Man said, setting one gauntleted hand on Cap's shoulder, "Tolkien wrote a twelve-hundred page sequel to the Hobbit. It's widely considered the best fantasy novel ever written."

Cap narrowed his eyes. "You're putting me on, right? This is like the astronauts getting fired out of a cannon, isn't it?"

The what? Hank frowned, about to ask what Cap was talking about, but Iron Man was already talking.

"No, really," he said, shaking his head. "The Lord of the Rings. There's a big, leather-bound combined edition in the library that you could borrow. I'm sure Mr. Stark wouldn't mind."

Jan glanced over at Hank, raising her eyebrows slightly and smiling. Hank arched an eyebrow back. Oh course 'Mr. Stark' wouldn't mind.

"Indeed," Thor was nodding, "it is a fine saga. That is what you must see, my friend," he added.

Jan nodded, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Oh, we should! The special effects are gorgeous, and so is Viggio Mortensen."

"Really?" Hank asked, unable to keep the sarcastic bite out of his voice. "I'm surprised you can tell through all that dirt."

"The stubble just makes it better," she informed him smugly.

Iron Man shrugged. "She's the authority, Highpockets. I'd listen to her." Highpockets again. It _had_ to Tony. Who else would possibly call him that? "But you really ought to read the books before you see the movies," Tony went on, now addressing Cap.

"Wait, movies?" Cap said, he looked confused for a second, before turning to stare at Iron Man with wide eyes. "Your boss has his own movie theater here?"

"Sadly, no," Iron Man said. "Just a blue ray player and a high definition television. It's a very large television, though."

"A what player?"

"It plays movies," Hank explained. "Really high quality movies."

"Verily, it shall be the perfect way to experience Tolkien's epic," Thor declared, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm.

""No," Iron Man insisted, "he ought to read the book first."

"Oh for god's sake," Jan huffed, rolling her eyes. "It's over a thousand pages long. This way the end of the movie will be a surprise."

"Or we could ask Cap what he wants to do," Hank suggested mildly. Cap was now glancing from one to the other of them as they all argued, a little line between his eyebrows. At Hank's comment, he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck and ducking his head slightly.

"If the book's really that long, we might as well watch the movie first. But I would like to read it. Thanks."

"Excellent!" Thor exclaimed, rising to his feet to tower over them all. "You have no idea what joys await you as we watch the saga of the noble quest to save Midgard. All twelve hours of it!"

Cap blinked. "Twelve hours?"

"The films must be watched together, as Tolkien intended," Thor's voice was solemn; Hank couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

"Be glad they cut Tom Bombadil out," Hank told Cap dryly. "Or it would fifteen hours long."

"Don't worry," Jan said, in the tone of voice of someone who was not going to be argued with. "We'll stop after Fellowship of the Ring."

* * *

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us.


	4. Enter the Enchantress, part 1

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.4 - Enter the Enchantress, Part One  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan.  
**Warnings:** Slightly less fluff, but still fluffy, by our standards, anyway. No slash yet.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this fan-written work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Summary:** One of Thor's Asgardian acquaintances shows up to cause trouble, and the other Avengers have reason to doubt Iron Man's reliability.  
**Authors' Note:** Plot blatantly stolen from Avengers volume 1, issue #7, with minor borrowing from several issues of Tales of Suspense.

As always, our thanks to **tavella** for the great beta job; this would be full of hideously embarrassing spelling errors if not for her.

* * *

**Enter the Enchantress**

_Part One_

The fight against the Masters of Evil had not gone well. Steve was astonished that the Black Knight, Radioactive Man, the Melter, and the erstwhile Human Top, now apparently calling himself Whirlwind, had managed to form a functioning team at all, considering that they'd all been solo acts until now. But form a team they had, and an unfortunately effective one.

The Black Knight and Radioactive man were formidable enough on their own, particularly Radioactive Man, whose superhuman strength actually made him a match for Thor. The fact that he actually was radioactive had complicated matters even more, since it meant that Giant-Man, their other powerhouse, couldn't touch him.

Even worse, Iron Man hadn't shown up, which meant that with Thor busy squaring off against his radioactive nemesis, the Black Knight had the sky to himself, and was free to rain energy bolts down on them all, while the Whirlwind ran circles around them and the Melter pulled a nearby building down on their heads.

Eventually, Hank had swatted the Melter into a pile of rubble and Jan had blinded the Black Knight with her sting, putting his energy lance out of commission. Steve, no longer hindered by trying to dodge energy bolts and falling masonry, had finally succeeded in clocking Whirlwind with his shield, and Thor had eventually pounded Radioactive Man into the ground. But it had taken much longer than it should have, much longer than it would have taken with Iron Man there, and the surrounding stores and office buildings had paid the price for it.

"We really could have used your help out there, Iron Man," Steve said. "Where were you?" He studied Iron Man's red and gold faceplate as he spoke, but as usual, it gave nothing away. He had wondered before why the man never took the armor off, if he even could; had something gone wrong with it? Was that why he had been so late? If it doubled as some kind of life support system, as Steve half suspected...

"The Melter is one of yours," Hank put in. "You've gone up against him before; we could have used that experience."

Jan, perched on Hank's shoulder, nodded. She fluttered her wings, saying, "It would have been a big help to have another flyer to tackle the Black Knight. His energy beams are no joke, especially when I'm this size. One of them could have crisped me no problem."

The Avengers had gathered in the conference room, around the massive wooden table, an ugly late-Victorian monstrosity with clawed feet that had probably come with the house. Iron Man had ducked in late, after what Steve considered a debriefing and the others clearly thought of as a round-table discussion was nearly over.

Thor was the only one of them who hadn't addressed Iron Man directly yet; instead, he stayed silent and looked thoughtful, as if waiting to pass judgment.

"I-" Iron Man, in his usual place beside Steve, looked down at his gauntleted hands, folded in front of him on the table, his shoulders slumping. "I'm forced to admit I don't have an excuse. I let a personal problem interfere with my duty to the team."

Steve reached over and laid what he hoped was a supportive hand on Iron Man's shoulder. "What's wrong?" The five of them were a team; if Iron Man was in some kind of trouble, well, one of the things a team did was help each other. "If there's anything we can do to help-"

Iron Man pulled away, shrugging Steve's hand off. "There isn't," he said shortly.

Steve pulled his hand back, stung by the other man's brusque tone. He considered Iron Man a friend, had told him things about himself, about his past, about why he wore the costume, that he hadn't shared with anyone else in this time. There weren't many people he'd shared that kind of information with even before he'd been frozen.

Iron Man was happy to listen to Steve go on about his own problems, it seemed, but didn't trust Steve enough to return the favor.

"Maybe you ought to take a few days off to deal with this 'personal problem,'" Steve said, in the same flat tone Iron Man had used. He phrased it as a suggestion, but it was nothing of the sort. A soldier whose head wasn't in the game was a liability, and that went double for superheroes, who might put civilians as risk as well as themselves and their teammates.

Iron Man nodded, still staring at his hands. "You're right. I probably should take some time off to get things under control."

Despite the fact that Iron Man obviously didn't want him to know about them, Steve couldn't help but wonder what those things were. "Would a week be long enough?"

"A week will be more than enough time," Iron Man said. "I'll see the rest of you then." And with that, he stood and left the room, hands clasped behind his back and posture oddly dejected-looking for someone who had as much as admitted that he needed the time off.

There was silence for a long moment after the door had closed behind him. Steve wasn't sure, but he thought Jan was giving him a funny look - it was hard to read her expressions when she was six inches tall.

The silence had just begun to be uncomfortable when it was finally broken by Thor. "An excellent idea, Captain America," he said, as good-naturedly as if Steve hadn't just allowed his personal irritation to goad him into kicking Iron Man out, without so much as asking any of the others. "A brief leave of absence will give our armored comrade time to resolve whatever problem it is that plagues him." He paused, and frowned faintly, adding, "I would that we might help him, but we must not press him to tell us about it, since we have all pledged to respect one another's secret identities."

Steve was fairly sure that that rule had been Iron Man's idea, since he was the only one of them who actually had a secret identity. Thor's commitment to upholding a pledge that had nothing to do with him was yet another sign of how seriously he took his personal code of honor. Steve himself couldn't help but be curious; he'd even been tempted, once or twice, to ask Tony Stark about his employee's identity, but not only would that be going behind Iron Man's back, it would be asking Stark to betray a confidence.

Jan fluttered down from Hank's shoulder, onto the table top, where she began pacing. "How exactly does Iron Man being gone for a week solve the problem of Iron Man not being there to back us up when we need him?" she asked, coming to a stop in front of Steve, her hands on her hips.

Hank shrugged. "He shouldn't let personal problems interfere with his obligations to us and Tony. Being grounded for a week will remind him of that."

This time, Steve could clearly see Jan's exasperated expression, six inches tall or no. "So we're sending him to his room? When did we turn into high school? And anyway," this directly to Hank, "do you really think Tony minds, all things considered?"

"You have to be able to make this," Steve gestured around the room, "your first priority." Wanting to make sure that they all functioned at their best was not immature or petty. He had already lost one partner; he didn't want to lose any of his teammates to mistakes that could have been easily prevented. "Being distracted in a fight is asking for trouble."

"Indeed," Thor said, "it will reduce our numbers by one, but who are we to begrudge Iron Man some time to deal with whatever it is that troubles him?"

Hank nodded. "Don't worry. We took down the Masters of Evil with just the four of us. We'll be able to handle anything that throws itself at us in the next week."

Steve carefully rotated his left shoulder, still bruised where a piece of falling rubble had hit it, and hoped that Hank was right.

* * *

For a long moment after he woke up, Steve could still feel the heat of the explosion. He sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, toes sinking into the deep pile of the doubtless very expensive carpet. He rested his head in his hands, drawing in a deep, shaky breath.

The worst part was that he couldn't even tell himself it wasn't real. Even slightly distorted through the filter of a dream, all of it had been true. The plane really had blown up. Bucky really was gone.

There was nothing he could do to change things, Steve reminded himself. Dwelling on it too much would make him ready for a section eight. He wasn't at that point yet, but if he let himself just sit around and wallow in guilt…

If he closed his eyes, he could still see Bucky's hand reaching out for him.

Steve stood abruptly. The library was always nice at this time of night, warmly lit and with plenty of books to distract himself with. Stark had shelves and shelves of the classics, not mention countless books written after 1945 that he hadn't even heard of, let alone read.

He'd heard somewhere that some people watched television when they couldn't sleep, but it had only taken him one attempt to realize that there was nothing playing this time of night that he wanted to watch. As far as Steve could tell, the most impressive thing about television seemed to be how many truly bad programs it broadcast.

As soon as he rounded the corner, he could see the light spilling out from under the library door. Iron Man must be- No, Iron Man wouldn't be there, of course; he was dealing with whatever problem it was that he refused to share with them.

Who would be in the library at this time of night?

Steve pushed open the door, curiosity getting the better of good manners, and found Tony Stark sitting in Iron Man's usual chair. He was wearing a crumpled dress shirt and black slacks that had obviously started out as part of a suit, his hair was disheveled, and there was a half-full glass of some kind of amber-colored alcohol at his elbow.

"Couldn't sleep?" Stark asked casually, not looking up from the journal he was reading. The single page Steve could see featured a technical drawing so complicated that he couldn't even begin to figure out what it was supposed to be, especially not from a distance and upside-down.

If it had been Iron Man, whom he'd shared the library with something like half a dozen nights now, and if the Avengers' meeting this afternoon had gone differently, Steve might have admitted to the nightmares, but he still didn't know Tony Stark very well. He funded the Avengers, and had been friendly to Steve the couple of times they had met, but Steve knew little more of him than that. Iron Man didn't talk about his employer much.

Steve shrugged, not answering. "I didn't expect to see you down here at this time of night." He'd been under the impression that Stark lived out near his company's factory complex.

"It's quiet. I don't get much time to myself during the day." Stark cast a glance around the library, giving the heavy wooden bookshelves an almost fond look. "When I was a kid, I used to sneak down here in the middle of the night and read. I still like to spend time here when I get a chance."

Steve walked to the nearest bookshelf, pulling a book out at random. Normally, he would have taken his time selecting one, but he just couldn't make himself at home in Tony Stark's library with Stark sitting right there.

"I think we cost you more in property damage fees today than our salaries are worth," Steve commented wryly, as he sat down.

"Once you've been on the team a little longer, you'll learn that that's what most of the Maria Stark Foundation's funds end up going to." He paused, smirking slightly, and took a sip of his drink. "I try to think of it as funding urban renewal projects."

"I hope it's not usually quite as bad as today."

"I can imagine." Stark's lips twitched. "I saw what the Melter did to my factory floor a few months ago, before old Shellhead put a stop to him."

Steve had never seen Stark and Iron Man together, outside of a couple of news broadcasts, but from the fondness he could hear in Stark's voice, the two of them were obviously closer than he had realized. It made sense, when he thought about it; the Iron Man armor was an incredibly powerful weapon, and Stark wasn't likely to trust just anyone with something like that.

"I don't know if Iron Man's talked to you about earlier," Steve ventured after a moment, feeling awkward at the memory of their near-argument. "The rest of us weren't suspending him as some kind of disciplinary action. His first priority, obviously, is being your bodyguard, and we're not going to try to distract him from that." Actually, he was more worried about Iron Man's mysterious problem distracting him from being an effective Avenger, but he wasn't going to come out and say that to the other man's employer.

"Don't worry," Stark told him, serious now. "One of the reasons I fund the Avengers is because I know how important it is."

According to the newspapers, the only things Tony Stark considered important were expensive business deals and attractive and equally expensive women. On the other hand, the press loved to exaggerate. Some of the things the papers had said about Steve during the war had born only the thinnest connection to reality.

Steve ducked his head, slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "You have no idea how much I appreciate the opportunity to do this," he said. He could feel his face heating slightly under Stark's gaze. "I don't know what I would have done with myself if I hadn't been able to join the Avengers."

Tony shrugged one shoulder. "Those decisions are for the team to make." He drained the remainder of his drink in one long swallow, his head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat, then added, "I just pay the bills."

Not to mention providing a mansion complete with a butler, Steve added silently. He shifted his hand over a little, rubbing at his sore shoulder absently. "We couldn't save the building today, but at least we saved all the people around it. That's what really matters. I wish I'd been able to-" he broke off abruptly. He'd been about to admit to things he wasn't prepared to share. I wish I'd been able to save Bucky.

"I know what you mean." Stark shook his head, a rueful smile visible for an instant under his mustache. "I wish I'd always seen things that way. Then maybe I wouldn't have made so many landmines."

He made it sound as if he'd had a change of heart after an extensive career in the arms business. Steve was fairly certain Stark was around the same age he was, though the expensive suits and the moustache and goatee made him look older. "What made you change your mind?"

"I got to see them in action," Stark said. His hand went to the middle of his chest, in what looked like an unconscious gesture. "I went overseas on a fact-finding investigation that turned into one giant disaster. I only made it out of there alive because someone else sacrificed himself for me. That sort of thing changes the way you look at things." He was silent for a moment, staring down into his empty glass, then added, "Since then, I've just been trying to be worthy of it."

A few weeks ago, just after he'd first woken up in this time, Steve had been sitting in this same spot with Iron Man, discussing why they'd decided to put on their costumes. What Iron Man had said then had been very similar to what Stark was saying now. "I've been very lucky; something happened to me about a year ago. I should have died, but I didn't."

Steve wondered if Iron Man had been on that same fact-finding investigation, if he was the one who had sacrificed himself for Stark. It would explain how he had been injured, and why Stark had spent what had to be considerable time and money designing and building him the armor.

"I know how that feels," Steve admitted. "My partner was on that plane with me. He didn't make it off."

"Iron Man told me that you asked about him when you woke up."

"He must have still been trying to disarm the explosives, and then he got caught on the wing." The plane, an experimental rocket-powered drone, had been packed with dynamite, enough firepower to take out a city block -- or an Allied airfield. And that was without counting the rocket fuel. "I should have made him jump first." The entire operation had been completely unplanned, and things had begun to go wrong right from the start. Planning had been Steve's job, but he'd thrown himself at that plane without a second thought. Even if they had been able to disarm the bombs, they would have no way out; neither of them had had a parachute.

"It gets easier," Stark offered, his eyes serious, intent on Steve's face.

"Really?" Steve couldn't help the hopeful note in his voice.

Stark shook his head, smiling ruefully. "No." He rose, crossing the room to pour himself another glass from the decanter on the sideboard. He held the decanter out in Steve's general direction, the dark amber liquid sloshing against its ornate crystal sides, and raised his eyebrows. "The answer to all life's ills. Can I pour you a drink?"

The heightened resistance to alcohol and other drugs that the supersoldier serum had given him not withstanding, Steve had never been much of a one for seeking answers in the bottom of a glass. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

Stark resumed his seat, and took a sip of his drink. "How are you finding it here? I told the staff to make sure you had whatever you wanted. Is there anything you need?"

Steve shook his head. "I'm fine. I guess I'm just still adjusting. Everything's so different." He paused, trying to think of something else to add, something to lighten the mood. "I still can't believe you have a butler. Are Jarvis's pancakes always that good?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm not really one for breakfast. I usually stick with coffee." He grinned. "He must like you. Jarvis doesn't usually make pancakes three days in a row."

"I'll have to let him know I appreciate it." He'd thanked Jarvis for the food each time, of course, but he'd had no idea it had been especially for him.

There was silence for a moment. Stark looked prepared to return to his technical journal.

Steve stood, stretching, one hand still holding the book he'd borrowed. "I'll leave you to your reading. I ought to try to get back to sleep."

"That ought to help." Stark nodded at the book. "It's one of my father's books on economics."

Steve glanced down at the book in his hand, looking at the title for the first time. It was, in fact, a book on price inflation. He could feel his ears turning red. "Oh," he said. "Um. Well, good night." He retreated back to his bedroom, taking the book with him.

It was, as promised, incredibly boring.

* * *

Amora had been stranded in Midgard for over a week now, and she had yet to discover why Thor found the place so fascinating. Mortals made for amusing playthings, but toys were only entertaining for so long. Beside, they broke easily.

Little over a week, and already she longed to return to Asgard. Her alliance with Loki had gone undetected for many years, and she had thought herself safe, her true allegiances unknown. But Odin, the treacherous, the twice-blind, had eyes everywhere. She did not know how he had divined her betrayal, but divine it he had, and his punishment had been swift and harsh.

Banished from Asgard, banned from the mead halls of Valhalla, forced to dwell among mortals, forced, for all intents and purposes, to act as a mortal. She who had once been called the Enchantress, Asgard's greatest sorceress, able only to use her powers to influence others.

Whilst she had remained in Valhalla, in full possession of her powers, Amora had not spared more than a passing thought for Loki's fate. His attempt to kills Baldur had been only partially successful, after all, and eternal imprisonment beneath the earth had seemed a fitting price for his failure.

Now, however, it seemed to her that his return could not come swiftly enough. With Loki free once more to resume his efforts to conquer Asgard, the time of her return to her rightful place could not but be near at hand.

Mortals seemed to spend all of their time attempting to feed and clothe themselves, but as she still possessed at least a fragment of her power, acquiring funds and a place to live had proven to be of no difficulty at all. She had also had no difficulty acquiring the information she required in order to begin preparing for Loki's return; in this case, the location of Thor.

Thor was Odin's favorite child, and had been much in his confidences before his own temporary banishment to Midgard. If any in this dreary realm knew of the location of Loki's prison, or a means of breaching it, it would be him.

Amora paused before the door of the mortal place of business where Thor had concealed himself, admiring her reflection in the mirrored glass. Here among mortals, her beauty shone even brighter; her hair seemed more golden, and her eyes, the blue of the sky at midwinter, seemed to hold their color all the more intensely.

Thor had ever ignored her when the two of them were together in Asgard, preferring to consort with Sif, whose playing at being a warrior ought to have made her as unattractive to him as another man would have been. Here in Midgard, there was no Sif. It was possibly the one good thing about the place.

She tossed her hair back over her shoulder, straightened the hem of her green miniskirt, and went inside.

"Do you have an appointment, Ma'am?" the woman seated behind the desk in the entry hall asked, looking up from the screen of one of the silly technological devices that seemed to fascinate mortals so.

"I do indeed," Amora announced. "One that is greatly overdue." She had taken but a step towards the door to Thor's hiding place when the woman spoke again.

"I'm afraid Dr. Blake is with another patient right now. But you can wait out here until he's free."

"You dare to tell me what to do?" Amora turned back to the woman, raising her eyebrows in astonishment. "Silence, woman, until my business here is done," she said, commanding the mortal women's voice to be still with all that remained of her inborn power.

The women moved her mouth frantically, no sound emerging, one hand going to her throat. Amora nodded in satisfaction, and pushed open the door to "Dr. Blake's" office.

It was, indeed, a clever disguise, she conceded. Who would have guessed that the mighty thunder god was concealed inside a form so… unimpressive?

"Dr. Blake" blinked at her, then turned to the man sitting on his examination table and said. "Here's a prescription for a refill of your medication, Mr. Lieber. I'll see you this time next month, all right?"

The man nodded, and got down off the table, walking towards the door. "Thanks, doctor. See you next month."

Amora took a careful step sideways to let him pass, having no desire to endure any unnecessary physical contact with mortals.

As soon as he had exited the room, leaving to door open behind him, "Dr. Blake" turned to Amora. "I don't think we need an audience for this, do you?" he said, and he crossed the little examination room to close the door, walking with a heavy limp.

Odin's cruelty was indeed great. To so lame the mighty Thor…

"You don't seem surprised to see me," she observed, concealing her momentary swell of pity.

"A little bird told me you might be coming," he said, retrieving a large, heavy walking stick from its resting place beside the door.

"Which one of the Allfather's overgrown crows was it?" she asked idly, silently preparing her spell. She only had to place him under her control for a few brief moments. The potion she had waiting in her purse would do the rest.

Instead of answering her, he struck the end of the walking stick against the ground sharply. Thunder reverberated in the distance, and suddenly the crippled mortal physician was gone, replaced by the tall, broad-shouldered form and familiar visage of Thor, the great hammer Mjollnir clutched in one hand.

Even as he raised the hammer, Amora stepped forward, laying a hand on the side of his face and gazing directly into his eyes, settling her spell over him like a net.

Thor froze, suddenly motionless, and Amora quickly retrieved the potion from her purse, raising it to his lips. His power was such that she could only ensnare him for a few moments, so time was of the essence. "Drink," she commanded.

He did so obediently, as she had known he would.

"Now," she said, once Thor had drunk the potion that would hold him under her power, "tell me where lies my lord."

Thor blinked at her. "In Asgard," he said, and even her potion did not prevent him from sounding as if he were speaking to a slow and stupid child. "On his great throne, Hlidskjalf, with wolves at his feet and a raven at either ear."

Amora stomped her foot. "Not Odin, you fool. My true lord, Loki. Where is Loki imprisoned?" It was fortunate that Thor was so attractive, or his company would have rapidly grown tiresome.

"He is safely bound beneath the oceans, where his malice harms no one but himself."

Well over half the surface of Midgard lay "beneath the oceans," and the mortals who lived there defended their territory fiercely. She would have to persuade him to be more specific.

She was the Enchantress. No man could resist her charms, especially not when he was already under her spell.

Amora leaned forward, going up on tiptoe, until her lips were a mere inch away from his. "What else can you tell me?" she breathed.

His eyes were fixed on her, as the spell required, but he showed no signs of being affected by her closeness. "My companions and I searched the place of his imprisonment, and found no signs of his stirring. I know nothing more to tell." His face had taken on a stern, stubborn set that she, and indeed all of Asgard's inhabitants, were all too familiar with. It was the look he had worn just before Odin had decided to send him to dwell in Midgard. It was also a look that meant she would get no more information out of him, magic or no.

Odin must have made him swear an oath not to reveal Loki's location to any of his allies. Blood oaths sworn to the Allfather were not easily broken, even for someone with her powers.

She had expended much of her remaining magic to ensorcell him thus; as long as he remained under her sway, she might as well derive as much use from him as she could.

Amora slipped one hand behind Thor's neck, and pulled his head down until his lips met hers. She kissed him long and deeply, her attentions meeting with no response.

She had dreamed of the day when Thor would take her in his strong, powerful arms and kiss her, and those dreams had not been like this.

Amora pulled away, frowning. No man resisted her. Had Sif, curse her, put him under some spell of her own, or was this the work of the mortals he had sworn his allegiance to?

If she could not command him to have passion for her, she could at least do something about these allies he seemed to have collected, these "Avengers." A foolish name. What did they imagine they were avenging?

She could not make him feel emotions he didn't feel, but while he was under the influence of her potion, she could make him see whatever she willed. She could even make him perceive her as Sif, she supposed, but that would be a hollow victory. She had something much better than that in mind.

Since he felt so strangely compelled to protect mortals, she would give him something to protect them against.

"Your mortal allies have been deceiving you," she breathed into his ear. "Playing you for a fool. They have been using the power of a son of Asgard for their own ends. They are the ones who wish to break Loki free, not I. And with his aid, they plan to overthrow Midgard's human rulers and rule themselves, making the other mortals their slaves."

Thor frowned, shaking his head, and she went on, pouring all the magic she could into her words, compelling him to believe them. "The giant eats human flesh, as his brothers the frost giants do. The man of iron is merely a soul-less tool built by his war-mongering creator. The insect-woman..."

She could see the anger and betrayal in his eyes as he began to believe the truth of her words. The spell would only last a few hours, of course, but by the time he awoke from it, it would be too late. After she sent him out to attack the Avengers, they would all turn against him, those that did not die. The Mighty Thor would find himself alone on Midgard once more, with no allies remaining to assist him when Loki broke free.

Perhaps then, devoid of all companionship, he would see the value in her company rather than rejecting her.

* * *

Now that he had the right gauntlet completely disassembled, Tony could see where the problem was; there was a tiny spot of corrosion on one of the wires that connected the repulsor apparatus to his central power battery. It was small enough to have escaped his notice when he'd overhauled it the day before yesterday, but over the past day or so it had begun interfering with the repulsor's response-time. Only by a fraction of a second, but as had been proven in his attempt to take out the explosive devices the so-called "Phantom" had left around his factory, sometimes a fraction of a second could make all the difference.

It had certainly made a difference yesterday, when he'd been attempting to prevent the Phantom from blowing up his factory. He'd been just a moment too slow to de-activate the last bomb, and the resultant explosion had nearly sent two thousand pounds of electric generator crashing onto factory floor. He'd managed to keep it from actually falling, lowering it gently to the floor instead, but the effort had drained his power reserves to the point that he'd barely had enough juice left to catch and unmask the Phantom. By the time he'd handed the man -- a former employee, which only served to add insult to injury -- over to the police, the pain from his damaged heart had been almost overwhelming. Luckily, he'd had his helmet on, so he'd been able to conceal it.

He'd managed to make it back to the private workshop behind his office, but had blacked out before he could connect his chest device to the recharging unit.

He'd woken up an hour later to find all of the blue lights on his chest device glowing brightly once more, and a "missed call" notification blinking on his Avengers communicator.

Happy had been sitting next to him, glaring mournfully at him. Apparently, he had found Tony unconscious on the floor, his armor only partially removed, and had dragged him over to the recharger and plugged him in.

Cap had not been pleased by his failure to his failure to respond to that call, and rightly so. He'd seen footage of the fight on the news later; the Avengers had nearly had their heads handed to them. He had a responsibility to the team just as he did to Stark Industries, and he'd let them down. Worse, let them down because of something as stupid as not maintaining his armor properly.

He'd known better than to overlook corrosion in wiring by the time he was eight. And that was when the things he had been working on didn't have the potential to cost people their lives if he screwed up.

Tony finished detaching the damaged wire, and discarded it, reaching for a new one. The string of accidents the Phantom's sabotage had caused had nearly shut down production on the aircraft systems work SI was doing for the Navy. Since they weren't selling weapons anymore, they needed to keep all of the other military contracts they could hang on to, and they'd been awarded this one over BAE Systems by the skin of their teeth to begin with. And Hammer Industries and Baintronics were circling like vultures, waiting to swoop in and steal the contract from under him at the first sign of weakness.

Thank God for Fury's pet project. Building a mobile base for SHIELD was paying the bills that kept SI's lights on. But they couldn't rely on that as their only source of revenue. Hence Tony being distracted, hence the sloppy maintenance, hence missing an Avengers priority alert through his own stupidity.

Tony set down the tiny pliers and even tinier acetylene welding torch he'd been using and pushed up his goggles, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his wrist; if he'd used his hands, he would only have gotten grease in his eyes.

He hadn't gotten much sleep the past couple of days, first because he was patrolling the factory floor looking for signs of the Phantom's work, and then because he hadn't been able too. He'd ended up in the library, as he usually did these days, with a glass of whisky and the Journal of Microcircuitry, trying to relax, and as occasionally happened, Cap had come in.

Despite the fact that Iron Man had let the Avengers down, Cap had actually tried to cover for him to "Tony Stark," his supposed employer. Tony had wanted to cringe; he'd tried to make sure Cap knew that he took the Avengers seriously, that Iron Man took the Avengers seriously, but he wasn't sure how well that had gotten across. After all, "Tony Stark" was just a rich playboy who paid the bills.

The gauntlet wasn't difficult to re-assemble, but the dozens of tiny pieces that went into the articulated joints required delicate work. Tony pulled his goggles down again, and dialed up the magnification, until all of the fine detail was visible. Ten minutes, and he would have a working set of repulsor gauntlets again.

He shouldn't have told Cap about the landmines, especially not when he was pretty sure he'd already mentioned them as Iron Man. But talking to Cap just felt so natural, and he'd forgotten for a moment that it hadn't really been him having those midnight conversations with Cap in the library for the past couple of weeks - that had been Captain America and Iron Man, not Captain America and Tony Stark.

It hadn't helped that he'd been on his third glass of whisky when Cap had come in. He probably ought to avoid drinking at the Avengers Mansion, Tony decided, at least, until he was more used to having a secret identity.

A small flash of red light in the corner of the workroom caught his eye; he wasn't wearing his Avengers communicator, but he'd left it in plain sight on the far end of one of the workbenches, and hadn't been able to bring himself to turn it off.

The communicator was currently flashing the deep red that meant that someone or something had set off the Mansion's security alarms.

The last time the alarms had gone off, the Mansion had been under attack by a ten-foot-tall, shapeshifting robot.

Tony reached over and turned the workroom's flat, plasma computer screen around so that it was facing him. A few keystrokes got him access to the feeds from the Mansion's security cameras. Motion on the feed from the front gate caught his eyes, and another keystroke pulled that image to the fore of the screen and enlarged it.

Thor was standing on the Mansion's lawn, the front gates a twisted and warped ruin behind him, hammer whirling around his head.

Tony was tightening the final screw on the gauntlet now - he tossed down the tiny hand-held screwdriver he'd been using and reached for the electric one. Those gates were solid wrought iron, two inches thick, and whatever was attacking the Mansion had just totalled the; Thor might need help. He'd promised to take time off from the Avengers, but that didn't mean Iron Man couldn't turn up on his own time to help out Thor.

Except... Thor wasn't fighting the Wrecking Crew or Dr. Doom. He was fighting Giant-Man. And there went the sudden bright flare of one of Jan's stingers. What the-?

Tony shoved the re-assembled gauntlet onto his hand, then reached for his breastplate. Forget taking time off. He'd apologize to Cap later; something was very wrong, and the team needed him.

* * *


	5. Enter the Enchantress, part 2

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.4 - Enter the Enchantress, Part Two  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** Slightly less fluff, but still fluffy, by our standards, anyway. No slash yet.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this fan-written work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Summary:** One of Thor's Asgardian acquaintances shows up to cause trouble, and the other Avengers have reason to doubt Iron Man's reliability.  
**Authors' Note:** Plot blatantly stolen from Avengers volume 1, issue #7, with minor borrowing from several issues of Tales of Suspense.

As always, our thanks to **tavella** for the great beta job; this would be full of hideously embarrassing spelling errors if not for her.

* * *

_**Part Two**_

How could he have allowed them to deceive him thus? Now that his eyes had been opened, it was all so very clear.

The Avengers had played him for a fool. He should have known better than to put such trust in mortals he had only just met - after Loki's betrayal, he should have been more on his guard, less blindly trusting.

Loki had been treated as one of them, as much a prince of Asgard as Odin's own blood, and yet he had plotted Baldur's death. Thor had trusted him as a kinsman and comrade, and all the time, he had secretly plotted Asgard's downfall, a serpent in their midst who had sunk his fangs right into his little brother's heart. This betrayal was as nothing to that one.

Why did he find that it cut just as deeply?

He landed before the front gate of the Avengers Mansion with enough force that his boots left a spiderweb of crack in the pavement. Under normal circumstances, he would have exercised more care, but now it mattered not.

He raised his hammer and stepped forward, preparing to knock the heavy iron gates aside as he had the gates of many a frost giant's stronghold. There was a faint whirring of metal gears, and the gates began to open smoothly before him.

Of course, Thor realized, his anger deepening. The Avengers still believed him their unwitting pawn. The gates would be programmed to let him in automatically.

Thor smashed them down before they could swing more than halfway open. The Avengers' overconfidence was a mistake that they were shortly to learn the cost of. The god of thunder was no one's pawn.

"Come forth, you traitorous dogs!" Thor shouted, with enough force to make the windows rattle. "Your villainy shall go unopposed no longer!"

There was a pause, and then the front door opened, and Giant-Man came forth, with the Wasp but a step behind him. They both wore their human guises, concealing their true, monstrous, nature.

"What's going on, Goldilocks?" Giant-Man asked, feigning confusion with a truly diabolical skill. "Are we under attack?"

Thor's lips pulled back into a grim smile. "You are indeed," he said. "You have fooled me well, Giant, but I will play the fool no longer. Before the sun sets on this day, Mankind will be free of your evil."

Giant-Man blinked, still feigning confusion. "Wait, what?"

"Has something happened?" the Wasp stepped forward, around Giant-Man. Her disguise was nearly flawless; even this close, she still looked human. "What do you think we've done? We've been here all day, I swear. I think this is the first time Hank's left the lab since breakfast."

Thor ground his teeth, tapping Mjollnir against his palm once, twice, three times. They knew that he knew, and still they were treating him as if he were no threat. As if he were so blind and stupid that he would accept their excuses and return to being their docile pawn once more. "Silence!" Thor commanded. "I will listen to no more of your lies!" He had had his fill of honey-tongued liars pretending friendship long before he had left Valhalla.

He stepped forward, swinging mighty Mjollnir with all of the force he could muster. It was time to put an end to this.

* * *

"Holy hell," Hank shouted, already throwing himself to one side. "Duck!"

Jan did better than duck -- she shrank down, small enough that even Thor would have a hard time landing a blow, and took to the air. Thank god she'd started making point of wearing a costume under her clothes after the incident with the Human Top; the only way this situation could have become more absurd would be if she were forced to fight one of her teammates while naked.

She flew a quick loop around Thor's head, doing her best to distract him while Hank grew. Under normal circumstances, she would have used the opportunity to blast her opponent in the face with her sting, blinding him, but this was Thor. Even if he'd apparently gone crazy, she didn't want to hurt him.

Hank, now at twelve feet, threw a punch at Thor's face, catching him clean across the jaw. Thor didn't so much as blink; he simply grabbed Hank by the wrist and tossed him into the Mansion's wrought iron fence as easily as if he'd been Jan's size.

Hank shook his head once, then grabbed the top of the slightly-warped fence and used it to pull himself to his feet. "All right, Big Guy, you want play rough?" He grew another foot, stepping away from the fence, and Thor drew back his arm to throw his hammer.

Thor's eyes would get better. Hank wouldn't heal from being smashed into a pulp. Jan darted down to hover directly in front of Thor's face and blasted him with both hands.

Thor hissed in pain, flinching back, and brought his free hand up to rub at his eyes. Mjollnir lashed out blindly toward her, and Jan flitted easily out of its path. Success. That ought to buy them at least a few seconds.

"Calm down, gorgeous! It's us! We don't want to hurt you." Or, more accurately, she didn't want him to hurt them.

Hank had to be nearly twenty feet tall now, the largest she'd ever seen him reach. She had to admit, it was impressive, enough that she took a moment out of the fight to simply admire how powerful he looked.

Then Hank swayed, and sagged sideways into the fence, which now barely reached his hip. He went down on one knee, holding onto the metal with one giant hand, head bowed.

"Hank!" Jan flew towards him, abandoning the fight with Thor. He must have been hurt when he hit the fence. He'd hit it with enough force to bend the metal railing, and the wrought iron top had been worked into a long row of what resembled decorative spearheads. If he'd hit those...

"What in the name of God are you people doing?" Cap's face was a study in blank astonishment; he stood frozen in the middle of the open gate, staring at them all as if not sure whether this was serious or some form of prank being played at his expense. He was wearing a long trenchcoat, an artist's portfolio in one hand, and was completely unarmed.

"Cap, look out!" Jan yelled, "something's wrong with Thor. He just went crazy and started attacking us!"

Hank groaned, shaking his head again, and hauled himself to his feet, one hand on the top of the fence for balance. "Next time I try to grow to twenty feet after being tossed around like a human ping-pong ball, someone remind me not to."

Jan felt a rush of relief; Hank wasn't as badly hurt as she'd feared.

Her relief vanished as Thor began spinning his hammer again, working up momentum, and then released it at the top of its arc, hurling it straight at Cap. Cap, who might as well have been empty handed.

Cap dropped to one knee, holding the portfolio up before him in what must have been an instinctive gesture. Jan cringed inwardly, time seeming to freeze. She and Hank were too far away to intervene in time. Mjollnir would tear through the leather case and the art supplies inside it like paper.

Mjollnir struck the portfolio with a resounding clang, rebounding off it into the ground.

Jan blinked. The hammer's impact had torn a large, roughly circular hole in the portfolio, revealing the bright blue and white of the center of Cap's shield.

"All right, Mister," Cap said, bending to grasp Mjollnir's leather-wrapped handle, "I think were going to have to confiscate this until you calm down." He tugged at the handle, with absolutely zero result - it might as well have been glued to the ground.

"No mortal hand may wield the mighty Mjollnir," Thor said, taking a step towards Steve and holding out a hand. Mjollnir leaped from the ground, flying into his hand. Jan had seen it magically return to Thor's grasp dozens of times before, but the sight had never looked so ominous as it did at this moment.

Jan flew at his face, executing several quick loops around his head. She had to distract him, to give Hank and Cap a chance to overpower him.

If they even could. Thor could trade punches with the Hulk. And they'd sent their only other powerhouse away.

"Hold still, wicked little fairy," Thor snarled, making a grab for her that missed by less than an inch. And then Hank grabbed him by the cloak with one giant hand.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" he snapped. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Blondie?" He grabbed Thor's waist with his other hand, started to pick him up, only to drop him with a pained yell as Thor slammed Mjollnir into his right index finger.

Jan winced, hearing bone snap with a dull cracking sound.

Cap's shield, free of the damaged portfolio now, came arcing through the air towards Thor, who blocked it with the haft of his hammer.

The shield rebounded towards Cap, who plucked it out of the air easily. "You not the only one who can do this trick," he said, with the faintest trace of satisfaction in his voice.

Jan flew at Thor again, her sting catching him on the shoulder, and then Thor's hand closed around her. "I have you now," he said triumphantly, fingers tightening around her. Her arms were pinned to her sides, rendering her sting useless. "If you care at all for your compatriot's life, you will explain your deceit. Now."

"What in hell's gotten into you, Thor?" Iron Man's familiar slightly hollow voice demanded from above them. "Put the lady down."

There was the whining crackle of a repulsor beam, and then Jan was abruptly released and beating her wings frantically to stay airborne. "I told you it was a bad idea to make him stay at home," she said, half-laughing with relief.

Cap shook his head, still looking confused and a little appalled. "Will someone please explain what's going on?"

* * *

Everyone was shouting at once, and none of it was making any sense.

"He just went crazy!" Hank waved one over-sized hand at Thor. "Yelling about us tricking him and all kinds of crazy stuff!"

"It is easy to explain," Thor bellowed. "I am no longer taken in by your trickery!"

"Next time I say something's a bad idea, are you going to listen to me?"

"What trickery?" Iron Man had landed directly in front of Thor, and was regarding him with a curious head-tilt. "Who told you we tricked you?"

"Everyone shut up!" Steve shouted, in the voice that he had until recently only used on battlefields. Surprisingly, they all did, even Thor. It was mildly gratifying. "Wasp." He pointed at Jan. "Explain this deceit and trickery is Thor going on about."

Jan shook her head, holding up her hands. "I've got nothing."

Steve blinked. "Oh."

Iron Man took a step closer to Thor; he was standing only a couple of feet away from him now, hands at his sides, as non-threatening as someone who looked like a faceless robot could look. "What trickery?" he repeated. "Why do you think we've deceived you?"

Thor regarded him with the sort of expression one reserved for people who had just asked particularly stupid questions. "Because you have," he snarled. He wasn't brandishing his hammer anymore, though, merely holding it. Steve couldn't blame him for that -- he was still holding his shield.

If this whole thing was some kind of elaborate practical joke the rest of them were staging at his expense, or a training exercise he hadn't been informed of, he was going to make them all very sorry. Combat scenarios were not a game. "You keep saying that," he said to Thor, keeping his voice calm with an effort. "Would you mind explaining exactly what we're supposed to have done."

"You played me false, concealing your true evil behind smiles and lies, pretending to be my brothers in arms while all the while you were plotting the destruction of humanity."

"I, um… what?" Hank shrank back to his usual size, folding his arms across his chest and wincing as the movement jarred his hand. "We were not!"

"He, the cousin of frost giants, hath eaten human flesh." Thor stabbed an accusing finger at Hank. "She, the Insect Queen, lays her eggs in human men, spawning horrors beyond recounting."

Jan laughed incredulously. "None of my dates have ever complained."

"You're not helping," Hank muttered, through gritted teeth. Jan fluttered over to sit daintily on his shoulder, swinging one foot back and forth.

"You know very well what it is that you have done," Thor went on, glaring at Steve. "And that, the thing you call 'Iron Man,' is naught but a soulless automaton built to serve the whims of his warmongering master."

"Soulless… I am not a robot!" Iron Man pulled off his left gauntlet, and held up a bare, very human hand. It was a nice hand, with long fingers. "My boss may be a warmongering man-whore," he went on, voice amused, "but I'm as human as the next guy." He wriggled his fingers for emphasis. "Human. Not robot."

Thor was frowning now, brows drawn together. "You're… not a robot."

"No," Iron Man said.

"Man-whore," Steve repeated slowly. He wondered if it meant what it sounded like it meant. Surely it couldn't. The way Iron Man talked about his boss sometimes… Tony Stark must be awfully familiar with his employees.

"Where on earth did you hear this load of claptrap, son?" he asked Thor, shaking his head.

"I am over two thousand years old. Do not call me son."

"No, I want to know, too." Jan fluttered down from Hank's shoulder, returning to full size as her feet hit the ground. "How did you learn about our, um, supposed betrayal?"

Thor frowned. "I find I cannot entirely recall the circumstances, but it seems to me that it was the Enchantress who told me of it." As Thor spoke, his face cleared, anger leaving to be replaced by a slightly embarrassed puzzlement.

"Who's the Enchantress?" Iron Man asked. He had put his gauntlet back on, and appeared at ease now, his casual stance no longer a pose maintained in an attempt to appear non-threatening.

"An Agardian sorceress," Thor said, his face darkening once more. "She has the power to compel men to do her bidding."

"Ah," Steve said, nodding, as several aspects of the fight he'd just walked in on finally fell into place. He had encountered mind control a few times before, during the war. People could be forced to act completely against their true nature. "She has the power to cloud men's minds?" he asked, thinking of the old radio show.

"And she told you what evil lurked in the hearts of the Avengers," Iron Man extemporized, waving a hand at the rest of the Avengers and matching Steve's reference to the beginning of _The Shadow_ with one of his own.

"She filled my mind with things I know to be untrue," Thor agreed, brows drawing together in renewed anger. "Things I would never have believed without her influence."

"So you attacked us," Hank said, cradling his injured hand against his chest. "Thanks a lot. You broke my hand."

"I am acquainted with a mortal doctor whom I am sure would be most pleased to come and attend to your injuries," Thor said solemnly.

"Let me see that," Jan said, reaching out to take Hank's injured hand in both of hers.

"Ow," Hank yelped; he was starting to look a somewhat green around the gills, his face tense with pain. Steve sympathized; broken fingers were surprisingly painful for a comparatively minor injury. "Careful! I need those fingers."

Jan looked up from Hank's hand. "This one's definitely broken."

"I know," Hank snapped, pulling his hand protectively towards his chest again. "I felt it go crunch. And fingers aren't supposed to be at that angle."

"I am most sorrowful that I have injured you," Thor told him. "And most grateful to all of you for breaking the foul spell that imprisoned me before worse occurred. I owe you all a debt." He turned to Iron Man, adding, "Tell Tony Stark that Asgard will compensate him for the gate."

"Do you have any idea what she wanted?" Steve asked. The idea that there was someone out there who could manipulate Thor this way was more than a little disturbing. She might have simply been trying to get to Thor, the kind of petty personal vendetta that supervillains seemed to thrive on -- the Red Skull had been particularly good at it, during the war -- or this might be part of some larger plot against the Avengers. "Was this some kind of revenge against you?" Steve asked, "Or do you think this Enchantress has some greater plan to attack the Avengers?"

Thor shook his head, the gesture making sunlight glint off his helmet's metal wings. "No, I believe this was an Asgardian matter. She wished to gain from me the location of Loki's prison. When I would not tell her, she became angry, and laid this spell upon me as a punishment." He frowned, fingers tightening around the handle of his hammer. "The next time I encounter her, she will pay for this affront. I shall not leave her an opening to take such advantage of me again." He glanced around the Mansion's lawn, not-quite-wincing at the sight of the demolished gate, and then his gaze came to rest on Iron Man once more. "Iron Man, have you reconsidered your decision to take some time to yourself? Has your problem been dealt with satisfactorily?"

"Not entirely, but I got the security alert that something was wrong here."

"What happened to taking some time off?" Steve asked; it came out sounding like a challenge, which wasn't how he had intended it at all. He had missed Iron Man's presence around the Mansion, missed knowing that the other man would be there to back him up, to back the team up.

Jan shook her head, tossing her hair back from her face. "I, for one, am glad he showed up."

"You mean, because we were getting our asses kicked?" Hank asked. "I really need to practice this growing thing more," he went on, and then broke off, looking even greyer than before. "I think I need to sit down now."

Jan grabbed his arm, tugging him over to the steps and making him sit. "Maybe you should have Thor's doctor friend take a look at you."

Hank nodded, resting his head on his uninjured hand.

Iron Man shrugged. "You looked like you could use some help."

Steve found himself smiling, ridiculously pleased. "If whatever problems you had are dealt with, the rest of us would be happy to have you back." Except… Iron Man had said that they "technically" hadn't been solved. Steve didn't want to push him to come back if he wasn't ready; if nothing else, it could be dangerous. Today, he had shown up when they hadn't expected him, to offer much appreciated help. Next time, he might fail to show up when he was expected, and they had already seen how disastrous that could be.

He felt his smile faltering, and added, "You're sure there's nothing we can do to help?"

"You are our brother in arms," Thor agreed, "and we would be more than glad to provide what aid we can."

Iron Man shook his head. "Thanks, but it's not necessary. It was a technical problem." He hesitated, then said, with what sounded like embarrassment, "I ran out of power."

"Oh," Steve said. He had been picturing all kinds of scenarios, many of them involving the injuries he suspected that the armor might conceal. The equivalent of running out of gas hadn't been one of them.

Hank snorted, head still cradled in his hand. "I can see why you might not have wanted to admit to that."

"Remember the first time you shrunk down, before you designed the ant-man helmet, handsome?" Jan asked, smiling slightly. She was sitting next to Hank now, one hand on his shoulder. "And the ants almost ate you?"

"They were only defending their nest," he said. "I should have anticipated it. Like Iron Man probably should have anticipated running out of power."

"We could always tie a string around your finger," Steve suggested, in the most deadpan tone he could muster. It was a relief to know that Iron Man hadn't been putting some other unknown commitment ahead of the team, that he was as committed as ever to being an Avengers, and that he wasn't ill or injured. A relief to know that his "personal problem" wasn't something serious.

It also made Steve feel a little silly for having come down so hard on him before.

"The repulsors would destroy it," Iron Man countered, holding up one hand and making a show of inspecting it.

"Do not be certain," Thor said. "I could bring you a piece of the ribbon of Gleipnir, forged in Asgard by dwarven smiths and stronger than iron chains."

Iron Man shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Behind Hank and Jan, the Mansion's front door swung open, and Jarvis emerged. "I trust the commotion over now?" he asked, and then he caught site of the ruined gate. He turned to Iron Man. "What happened to the gate? It was original 19th century ironwork."

The operative word being "was," unfortunately. "I'm sure Mr. Stark can have it fixed as good as new," Steve offered.

"That," Jarvis said, still regarding Iron Man with disapproval, "is not the point."

"Please accept my apologies." Thor actually looked abashed, eyes sliding guiltily from Jarvis to the gate. The he nodded at Hank. "I will go and fetch Dr. Blake to attend to your hand."

Iron Man regarded Jarvis for a moment, head titled slightly to one side. "You're not actually mad about the gate, are you?"

"Mr. Hogan informed me of what happened at the factory the other day."

"And after the boss swore him to secrecy and everything." Iron Man hesitated for a second, then, "It won't happen again?"

"I hope not," Steve said, struggling to keep a straight face. "We rely on Iron Man to have our backs. We're a better team when we're all working together."

"Certainly better than when we're attacking each other," Hank commented, grimacing as he tried to flex his fingers.

Jan stood, patting him on the shoulder. "All right, talking later. Fixing Hank's hand now."

Thor went to fetch this Dr. Blake of his, and the rest of them went inside. Despite the fact that they had just been attacked by one of their own teammates, and now knew that there was a potentially dangerous supervillain after Thor, Steve found himself feeling surprisingly cheerful.

* * *

Thor had really done a number on the gates, Tony reflected, as he surveyed the mess of warped and tortured metal. There wasn't a hope of repairing them; they'd have to be replaced.

He had promised Jarvis that he'd see to it, though, after yesterday's fight had ended.

After everyone had calmed down, Thor had left almost immediately, and only minutes later, a tall, thin blond man with a doctor's bag and a heavy limp had shown up outside the front gates, not so much as raising an eyebrow at the destruction. Thor must have flown to get him there so quickly.

He'd also presented Hank with an absolutely terrifying insect that he claimed came from the realm of the frost giants. Jan, upon seeing it, had shuddered in elaborate disgust and announced that it was the size of a human foot and Hank was absolutely not keeping it in the Van Dyne lab facilities. It was actually the size of a thumb, and given how often Jan rode around on Hank's flying ants, Tony suspected the complaint had been mostly for show. He had apparently already named it, though Tony hadn't heard what said name was yet.

Some people would probably have found that odd, but Tony named his lab equipment, so he understood. It often helped to have something to talk to while you worked.

"It started out as a detective show that he would narrate," Cap was saying, "and by the time I was in high school, it had turned into its own show. I liked it best when he was fighting the evil, psychic warlord." He poked desultorily at the twisted remnants of one of the decorative spikes. "This isn't fixable, is it?"

Tony shook his head, just remembering to make it a broad gesture; Cap wouldn't be able to see his expression through the helmet's faceplate. "Evil warlords with superpowers who think they're descended from Genghis Khan aren't all they're cracked up to be." He would gladly have traded the Mandarin for Shiwan Khan, though. The Shadow always seemed to have a much easier time defeating his arch-nemesis than Tony had had stopping the Mandarin's last attempt to take over and rule all of Asia.

He inspected what was left of the hinges, trying to determine how he was going to remove the gates without damaging the rest of the fence. He was going to have to cut through the bottom-most set of hinges. The top ones… maybe if he straightened out the gate around them, he might be able to un-hinge it without resorting to acetylene cutting tools.

It would be easiest to deal with the top of the gate while the bottom was still attached.

Tony reached out and took hold of the top of the gate with both hands, forcing the metal cross-bar into something approximating a straight line.

"Can I help?" Cap asked. "I feel pretty useless just standing here."

"Not yet. Just keep talking to me. It's help diminish the feeling that Mr. Stark is going to show up and belt me one for messing with his gates."

Cap frowned, leaning one shoulder against the undamaged fence. He had pushed his mask back, and his hair ruffled in a light breeze that Tony couldn't feel. It was always slightly startling to see him without the mask. You forgot, between opportunities to see his face, how classically handsome he was. "Didn't he specifically ask you to clear them away? I thought the two of you were on good terms."

"No, not Tony Stark." Tony threw all of the armor's augmented strength into pulling another metal bar out of the warped curve Thor had bent it into. "His father. Howard. He was in charge of the company until about three years ago. He was… difficult to work for. He was a hard man to please."

"I had a sergeant like that once," Cap offered, pulling a wry face. "I spent almost as much time peeling potatoes as I did fighting Nazis." He shook his head. "I must have been horrible to be in charge of. It didn't help that I knew I actually outranked him when I wasn't undercover, but that's no excuse for how insubordinate I probably was."

Tony listened silently, as he worked the first hinge open, the other hinges squealing in protest as it came lose and the extra weight settled on them. It was nice to have someone to talk to like this.

Cap was unexpectedly easy to talk to. Tony had never been much for casual conversation; he was used to giving directions to employees, and to schmoozing other businessmen or flirting, two things which he had never found to be that different. Sometimes the right kind of smile and a suggestion that you might be available later that evening was enough to get someone to view a deal as favorable. Just talking like this, with no underlying agenda, was new.

It wasn't like this when he was being Tony Stark. Not as easy, save for the middle of the night when he'd forgotten that he wasn't supposed to be Iron Man and stopped guarding his tongue... Iron Man was Cap's comrade in arms, as Thor would have put it; Tony Stark was just the guy who paid the bills.

"This fence must be the original art nouveau iron work," Cap commented after a while, running a hand lightly down one thick, metal bar. "It's going to be hard to find new gates that will harmonize with the rest of it."

Tony had moved on to the second set of hinges. Pulling them loose would take the armor's full strength, and he wouldn't be able to be delicate enough to avoid damaging the surrounding fence. "The boss will make new ones to match the fence. Can you hand me that acetylene torch?"

"He can do that?" Cap blinked, cocking his head slightly; he looked both curious and a little impressed. Or maybe that was just Tony's imagination. It would have been nice to think that Captain America might be impressed by something he could do, but more likely he was just surprised that someone like Tony Stark would take time out of his busy schedule to handle something like a simple repair job.

Tony realized belatedly that that Cap was holding the torch out to him, and took it. "It will be incredibly simplistic work, but I think it's going to be fun. Mr. Stark enjoys that kind of thing," he added, remembering his slip the other night.

It would be nice to have a chance to work with his hands, on something constructive. Since the car crash that had killed his… since his parents had died, he hadn't gotten to spend as much time in R&D or on the factory floor as he would liked too -- when he wasn't being Iron Man, most of his time was spent running the company, half of it in board meetings with men who still thought he was a nineteen-year-old spoiled brat. Even worse were the ones who remembered him from when he was six, when his father used to bring him in occasionally to parrot facts about electronics in order to make the board feel stupid ("My six year old understands these designs. What is wrong with you people?").

The only thing he really got to play with these days was the armor. There were times when he thought he might have gone crazy with boredom without it.

"Where do you know about the Shadow from?" Cap asked, watching from a safe distance as Tony started to cut through the next hinge. He hadn't even had to warn him to stand back, out of the way of sparks. Some people had to be warned repeatedly, but Cap had just taken one look at what he was doing and stepped back a couple of paces. "I don't suppose it's still on the air?" he added, with a hopeful note in his voice. He paused. "Or is there a television show?"

"No." Tony didn't look up from what he was doing; Jarvis would kill him if he screwed this up. "But they've made a bunch of movies of it. MIT had some in their film library, and a couple of recordings of the old radio show in their music library, too."

"Oh," Cap said, sounding slightly disappointed. "I don't suppose they had The Midnight Racer? That one was even better. He fought crime with the help of an extremely fast car and a chauffeur who knew martial arts."

"I've never heard of that," Tony admitted. Then, because he couldn't help but ask, "What kind of car was it?"

"It was a custom built car. It had a machine gun that popped up out of the trunk, and little knives that came out of the hubcaps to slash other cars' tires."

That sounded… exactly like the kind of thing he would have loved when he was ten. He said as much, and Cap grinned at him.

"I'm glad you're back," Cap said, after Tony had worked in silence for a while, concentrating on cutting the gate, now off its hinges, into manageable pieces that could be carried away. "I'm sorry I lost my temper at you before."

"Don't be. There was no excuse for missing an alert like that." It had been unforgivably stupid of him not to be prepared, to have missed the corroded wires in his gauntlets, to have expended so much power in the fight with the saboteur that he'd had nothing left when the Avengers needed him. After all, what good was he, if he couldn't be effective either as Iron Man or as an Avenger? "I'm just glad I showed up in time this time, before Thor had a chance to smash anything else Mr. Stark would have had to fix."

"It wasn't his fault," Cap objected mildly. "Being controlled and manipulated like that must be pretty unpleasant."

Tony shuddered, glad the armor hid the evidence of just how much the idea creeped him out. "I don't know what I would do if it had been me," he said. "The armor could have caused a lot of damage."

"Asgardian family life must be interesting," Cap said. If it was a deliberate attempt to change the subject, Tony was grateful for it.

He grinned at Cap, though he knew Cap couldn't see it. The other man was still leaning against the gate, his eyes looking very blue as he grinned back. "And you haven't even him really go on about Loki yet," Tony said. "Let's just say that there's not going to be any mistletoe at this years' holiday party."

It was August now and Christmas was months away, but Tony suddenly found himself looking forward to it for the first time in a very long while. He had been joking about the idea of an Avengers' holiday party, but as soon as he mentioned it, he found himself wondering what it would be like to have a party over the holidays that wasn't an SI office function, a business event, or some dreadful society affair that was only bearable if you had plenty of alcohol at hand and someone attractive on your arm to distract you from all the people trying to make small talk.

"You guys have holiday parties? Last Christmas I was in northern France with an Allied tank battalion. It was just me and-" he broke off, smile faltering for a moment, then went on, "Spending it with the team sounds nice."

"Oh definitely. Mr. Stark's all about parties," Tony told Cap. "He wouldn't have it any other way." If he was lucky, he'd be able to get away from Tony Stark's social obligations long enough to attend as Iron Man. It wouldn't be hard to convince the others; Jan would jump on the idea as soon as he promised to let her do the decorating, Hank always did what Jan told him to, and Thor seemed like the kind of guy who would enjoy a party even if he didn't celebrate the particular holiday it was being held for. "As a matter of fact, we're having a Thanksgiving party, too."

Cap smiled at him, and Tony felt a ridiculous surge of pleasure all out of proportion with the reaction. "I'll look forward to it."

* * *

As always, thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favorites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us.


	6. Iron Man: Murderer? part 1

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.5 - Iron Man: Murderer?  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** This fic is not quite so fluffy as the previous ones. The general PG-level rating is probably closer to PG-13 on this one. No slash yet, although hints are starting to show through.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Plot blatantly stolen from Iron Man volume 1, issue #124-128. Yes, we're compressing timelines kind of a lot introducing this arc while the Heinrich Zemo storyline is still going on, but come on, you knew it was coming from the first moment Justin Hammer showed up.  
**Summary:** The Avengers' trust in a team member and in their financial sponsor is tested when Iron Man is accused of murder.

As always, our thanks to **tavella** for the great beta job; this would be full of hideously embarrassing spelling errors if not for her.

* * *

_**Chapter One**_

Steve had told himself that he needed to move on, get over it, stop dwelling on things that would only upset him, that there was nothing he could do to change the past. When he was awake, he even believed it. Unfortunately, his subconscious hadn't gotten with the program yet, and all of the things he could mostly ignore during the day came creeping out at night.

He had been jerked out of sleep by yet another dream of the German airplane exploding. This time he'd woken just as he hit the water, Bucky's cries for help ringing in his ears, to find the clock reading 4:30 a.m. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the times he dreamed of being frozen, and woke to find himself tangled in the blankets, unable to get warm.

After lying in bed for another half hour, futilely trying to get back to sleep, he had surrendered to the inevitable and gotten up; he was normally out of bed by five-thirty anyway.

Maybe this time he'd be able to figure out how to work the ridiculously complicated coffee-maker. Iron Man, Hank, Jan, and Jarvis had all attempted to explain how to operate it, but there were so many damn buttons. The coffee-maker could do at least twelve different things, including possibly think for itself. It seemed excessive when all he wanted was a simple cup of coffee.

He was in luck; Tony Stark was in the kitchen. He'd certainly know how to work the coffee machine; he'd built the Iron Man armor, and the coffee-maker was at marginally less complicated.

Stark was wearing a crumpled white dress shirt, his collar unbuttoned and his tie draped over the back of the chair beside him. He was resting his chin on one hand, staring intently at a sheaf of papers he'd spread out on the table in front of him. From the look of him, Steve suspected that he hadn't actually been to bed yet.

Most people, after a night without sleep, looked worn and tired. Stark also looked worn and tired, but somehow managed to appear slightly debauched as well. Steve wondered if he'd actually been doing anything to merit that impression, or if it was simply an innate skill.

He stood there for a moment, surveying the table, trying to find a spot that was clear of papers. There was none.

Steve cleared his throat, and Stark looked up, blinking, looking slightly dazed.

"Good morning," Steve said. "I'm not interrupting you, am I?"

"Oh. Cap." Stark rubbed at his eyes with one hand, then started collecting his papers back into a single pile. "Let me just move this. I hadn't realized it was morning already."

"I get up early," Steve said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Army training."

Stark nodded, his attention already reclaimed by the papers.

After a minute, Steve got up again, and went over to the coffee-maker. It crouched on the countertop, a mass of black plastic and silver metal, its little red light blinking at him mockingly. Steve inspected the panel of buttons, more of them than the most complicated radio he'd ever used. He selected one, pressed it, and the machine began to make a hissing noise. He pressed several more buttons, all of which failed to make the hissing stop.

"Here." Stark elbowed him out of the way, moving to stand in front of the machine. He pushed a single button, and all was silent again. "You take your coffee black, right? With two spoonfuls of sugar?"

"Um, yes," Steve managed after a moment, once he'd overcome his surprise at the fact that Stark actually knew that. How did he know that? Steve had eaten breakfast with the other Avengers before, but never with Stark.

Only a couple of minutes later, Stark was presenting him with a cup of hot coffee fixed just the way Steve liked it. Steve took his coffee, and the two of them returned to the table, Steve resuming his seat in the cleared space opposite Stark.

"What are you reading?" Steve asked, nodding at the papers. He took a sip of his coffee, which was perfect.

"Everything I can about Carñelia. My bodyguard and I have a meeting with the Carñelian Ambassador early this afternoon, and I'm not as up to date as I should be on countries that maintain a policy of neutrality in global conflicts," he said, offering Steve a rueful smile. "Now that SI's branching out from weapons into medical and communications technology, Carñelia's interested in what we've got to offer them. They've got a lot of mineral resources, but they don't have the infrastructure to capitalize on them on their own," he went on, gesturing towards the papers with his silver pen. "They've seen the disaster Vespugia's made of their ecosystem with open pit mining and slash and burn logging, and they don't want to repeat their neighbors' mistakes."

"What exactly does your company do, other than not make land mines anymore?" Steve hated to ask and reveal his ignorance, but he'd been living in Stark's house for a month, and he still didn't really know.

Stark's lips twitched. "I just wish the stockholders were as interested in all the things we make that aren't weapons." He sighed, laying his pen down. "On my end, I mostly spend hours in meetings with men who used to work with my father and still think I'm twelve, the majority of whom still haven't forgiven me for the fifty-some points our stock dropped after I shut down weapons production."

"Oh," Steve said. He took another sip of his coffee. The mug had "Stark Industries" printed on its side, along with the corporate logo. "But what do you actually make?"

"We still have a lot of defense contracts, mostly aircraft systems work and targeting systems. And we make commercial communications technology and medical equipment. The same technology that I designed for the articulated joints in the armor turned out to be really useful in artificial limbs. It picks up on the electrical impulses in your muscles and nerves and translates them into movements, and we've managed to eliminate the lag time most of our competitors' technologies still suffer from."

Steve, listening to Stark's obvious enthusiasm, found himself smiling. It reminded him of Iron Man, right down the hand gestures Stark was now making to illustrate how his company's prosthetics worked. Iron Man had made similar hand gestures while explaining how the Avengers communications equipment worked.

It was easy to see why Iron Man and Stark were friends, and also obvious that they spent a lot of time around one another.

The thought brought home to him once again just how little he really knew about Iron Man. Stark had spent enough time around him for them to pick up one another's speech patterns, while Steve didn't even know Iron Man's real name. Steve glanced down at his coffee, his smile fading for a moment, then looked back up at Stark.

Stark ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before, then shook his head. "That's not what's paying the bills, though," he went on. "Right now we're building something big for SHIELD. Technically it's classified, but if I can't tell Captain America about it, who can I tell?" He grinned. "It's a flying aircraft carrier."

A flying... "That was Nick's idea, wasn't it?"

Stark shook his head, still grinning. "No, the flying cars were Fury's idea. The Helicarrier is a group effort."

"Meaning you, Nick, and Dum-Dum?" Steve guessed. Flying cars? That sounded like something out of Buck Rogers. Just when he thought he'd adjusted to being in the future, he'd run into something else straight out of a comic book.

"Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four is helping, too. He's the one who figured out the math for the anti-matter units that power it. The flying cars were all mine, though."

Dr. Reed Richards, whom Hank regarded with something approaching awe, was a Nobel prize winning physicist whose entire family were apparently superheroes. The entire thing sounded a little odd to Steve; from what he'd heard, Richards had given them all superpowers by mistake. By going into space. That was the point at which Hank's explanation had stopped making sense.

Steve set his empty coffee down and got up to rummage through Jarvis's refrigerator. Stark was still talking.

"Their wheels double as rotor blades; they rotate sideways and provide lift and angled thrust..."

Steve listened with half an ear as he pulled eggs and milk out of the refrigerator and found a frying pan in one of the cupboards. "I'm making scrambled eggs," he interrupted. "Would you like any?"

"No," Stark said, a mildly horrified expression on his face. "I'm... not really a breakfast person." He stood, collecting an empty mug from a corner of the table, and poured himself what Steve suspected was by no means his first cup of coffee. He leaned back against the counter, mug cradled in one hand, and watched as Steve got down a bowl to beat the eggs in. "If you want to wait, I'm sure Jarvis will be making breakfast later."

"Yes," Steve agreed; he was already looking forward to another of Jarvis's breakfasts, "but I'm hungry now."

Stark watched as Steve poured the beaten egg and milk mixture into the pan, then sat down and resumed reading.

A few minutes later, the eggs were ready. Steve divided them between two plates, one for himself and one for Stark, and took them over to the table.

Stark didn't look up when Steve set his plate and a fork in font of him.

Steve sat down and began to eat his eggs, watching Stark as he continued to read. Early morning light was beginning to spill in through the kitchen windows, making the room feel cheerful and banishing the last shreds of his dreams.

Stark was playing idly with his pen while he read, absent-mindedly twirling it through his fingers. He had long, slender fingers, Steve noted. There was a shiny burn mark on left index finger; Iron Man had said that he was going to make the Mansion's new wrought iron gates personally. Steve wondered if he had already started, if that was where the burn had come from.

After a minute or so, Stark set down the pen and turned over a page. Then he reached out and, rather than picking up the pen again, picked up the fork. Then, apparently automatically, since he never once glanced up from his reading, he started to eat.

Steve smiled to himself and put his empty plate in the dishwasher. The he left the kitchen to go and get ready for morning run, feeling oddly satisfied and not quite knowing why.

* * *

The Carñelian Ambassador had specifically requested Iron Man's presence at the opening round of talks about a potential US-Carñelian trade agreement. Stark Industries was, of course, going to be playing a large role in this agreement, since there were tentative plans for a mine and refinery jointly owned and operated by SI and Industrias Nacionales, Carñelia's largest manufacturing company. Carñelia's economy had a strong socialist influence, and all of their heavy industry was owned by the government.

Which meant that Iron Man was there more as a walking advertisement for SI than anything else. Tony always felt a little silly when he was playing games for the media like this, like a walking billboard. And today was going an especially tricky masquerade, because Iron Man was going to be escorting the Carñelian Ambassador in and out of the building, while Tony Stark had to show up at the meeting as himself.

The plaza in front of the UN building was filled with cameramen and reporters, and of course, the usual complement of security people. Numerous cameras flashed as he walked toward the building, its smoothly reflective surface throwing the glare back at him.

There were a handful of protestors with signs denouncing the World Trade Organization, and a number of tourists and sightseers in the crowd as well, which made him feel even more like some exhibit on display. They must be here to catch a glimpse of the politicians and foreign dignitaries; Iron Man wasn't newsworthy unless he was fighting something.

"No!" he heard a child in the crowd wail piercingly. "Don't want to see the robot! I don't like the robot!"

Tony winced. Well that was a good omen; he was starting the meeting off by frightening small children.

He paused at the broad double doors and waited as the Ambassador's car approached.

The camera flashes increased exponentially as the car door opened and the ambassador climbed out. He was shorter than Tony, and somewhat heavyset, his dark hair going thin on top. Even from his station by the doors, Tony could see the man's cheerful smile. The bodyguard who accompanied him, nearly a head taller than Tony despite the extra height the armor leant him, didn't look as if he'd ever smiled in his life.

"Iron Man!" the ambassador called out, stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Tony shook his hand, careful not to grip it too hard, "I'm honored that you asked for me, Mr. Ambassador. I'm sure the boss would have been more than willing to come out and meet you himself."

"We have no superheroes in Carñelia, so this is very exciting for me." The ambassador hesitated for a moment, then offered Tony a slightly embarrassed smile, and produced a piece of paper and a pen from one of his suit pockets. "In fact, would you mind signing an autograph? For my niece."

"Of course," Tony said, taking the paper and pen. At least not all children were afraid of him. "What's your niece's name?"

"Ah," the ambassador looked somewhat more embarrassed. "Sergio," he muttered.

Inside the helmet, Tony grinned. "Sergio" as in "Sergio Larocca, Carñelian ambassador to the United States." "Right," he said, still smiling to himself, and signed the piece of paper "to Sergio."

Ambassador Larocca accepted the autographed paper back, folded it, and put it in his pocket with a pleased smile. "So, you are an ordinary man inside your suit, correct?"

"I'm just a guy in a tin suit, Ambassador," Tony agreed. "Mr. Stark's circuitry does all the real work." He ushered the ambassador through the doors, into the building's spacious lobby and away from the reporters.

"I must admit, since you first turned up on the international news last year, I've wondered what it would be like to wear such a suit."

"There's nothing like it in the world," Tony told him, dropping the corporate shill act for a moment in favor of honest enthusiasm. He'd always loved flying, and flying in the armor was even better. It was a no-holds-barred, total immersion kind of flying, one of the only times he was able to block everything else out and just enjoy something. "It's better than having your own private jet."

"It must be like being Superman."

"I guess so." Tony shrugged, the armor making a faint whirring sound as he did so. "I never really thought about that way." He'd always preferred Batman; Batman won by being smarter than his opponents, not by super-strength.

The two of them -- and the entourage of security people and aides -- reached the entrance to the conference room where the talks were being held, and Tony came to stop, gesturing at the door. "This is where I leave you," he said. "I had to get all kinds of special permission just to get this far into the UN building, what with all the weapons in my suit. The boss will be with you shortly."

"Ah." Ambassador Larocca nodded. "I had wondered about that. Will I be seeing you later? I had hoped to get some photos with you, for the newspapers back home."

Tony agreed that he would be available for photographs later, then quickly departed for the privacy of a secluded corner, where Iron Man could turn back into Tony Stark; thank God he'd been able to make the armor compact enough that it could be discreetly tucked away inside a briefcase.

The talks went surprisingly well, better than Tony had expected. Aside from Ambassador Larocca's momentary look of surprise upon meeting him, no one commented on the fact that Tony was at least a decade younger than anyone else in the room.

Carñelia was very enthusiastic about opening trade with the US, and was far more amenable to the conditions that State Department had insisted upon than Tony had dared to hope for. The ambassador countered with two conditions of his own; that Carñelia would own all the infrastructure for the NIC/SI mine and manufacturing plant, and that all operations would abide by Carñelia's strict environmental laws.

The stricter emissions laws were a plus, actually. Tony was almost certain that not only could he reduce the factory's greenhouse gas emissions and energy consumption while still making a profit, but that he could actually save money by doing so. Then, when it came time to discuss making modification to SI main plant with the board of directors, he could wave the statistics in their faces.

Ambassador Larocca had also pushed for the US to join Carñelia's trade embargo against Vespugia. Tony -- and the various politicians in attendance -- had made noncommittal noises, but given that Nick Fury had cited Hammer Industry's connection with Vespugia as one of the reasons the other company had lost its contract with SHIELD, Tony foresaw a breakdown of US-Vespugian relations on the horizon anyway. Vespugia had recently signed a trade agreement of their own with Latveria, with didn't work in their favor in the eyes of most of the UN, even if Latveria was technically a member of the UN as well. Fury had hinted strongly that Hammer Industries-made adamantium was being funneled into Latveria via Vespugia.

Nothing had actually been signed yet, but everybody from Washington had looked pleased, so Tony could only assume that they had made progress.

Tony made his excuses as soon as they all had all had left the conference room, and ducked out of sight to change into Iron Man again. He met the ambassador at the front door.

"I think the photograph would be best outside," the photographer who had accompanied the Carñelian delegation said, hefting a massive, fancy digital camera. He had a heavier accent than the ambassador, and, refreshingly, looked only a little older than Tony. It made Tony feel slightly less like a kid playing dress-up amongst the real adults, something he was starting to get a little sick of, to be honest.

At least in the armor, no one could tell that he was twenty-four.

Tony and the ambassador obediently went outside, everyone else following them. They then had to undergo several minutes of being positioned to the photographer's satisfaction, with the portion of the row of flagpoles that included Carñelia's flag to the best advantage in the background.

"Now stand next to one another," the photographer directed. "And you, Iron Man, put your hand on his back. We want this to look friendly."

"Senor Guice is new," Ambassador Larocca whispered to Tony. "He joined us just before we left Carñelia. I've been assured that he's quite good."

Tony put his left gauntlet on Larocca's shoulder, angling his body slightly so that he appeared to be looking at Larocca, but was still facing the camera. "Well, at least I won't have to worry about whether or not I'm smiling or if I've got my eyes closed," Tony joked.

The ambassador laughed, and then the photographer held up his camera and said, "Smile, gentlemen."

As the flash went off, Tony felt his left hand vibrate, almost as if his repulsors were being fired. The ambassador staggered forward, and Tony grabbed at him to keep him from falling, and then his helmet was filled with the smell of burning flesh.

He hadn't turned his air filters on. Not for a publicity appearance.

People were screaming, all around him.

There was a perfect hole burned through the ambassador's chest, still smoking slightly, and an almost incongruous lack of blood. Everything had been cauterized, of course.

The ambassador's gigantic bodyguard snatched Larocca's body away from him, lowering him to the ground. Then he had his gun out, and aimed squarely at Tony. All the security officers had their guns aimed at Tony.

"You killed him!" the bodyguard yelled.

"No," Tony stuttered, taking a step back. "I-"

"You killed him!" someone else shouted.

He couldn't have. He hadn't fired the repulsor. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't--

"Grab him. Don't let him blast anyone else!"

He had to get away, away from Sergio's body, away from all of these people shouting at him. Away from everything.

Tony fired his boot jets, and was gone.

* * *

Law enforcement officers and reporters were practically laying siege to Stark Industries. This wasn't the first time something like that had had happened, but it was about the worst Happy had ever seen. Everyone wanted to get their hands on Iron Man, everyone wanted to talk to Tony Stark, and nobody had seen a scrap of the boss in half a hour.

Pepper had been handling the cops and the media so far, but she was starting to get desperate, and when Pepper got desperate, Happy was the one she took it out on. It didn't help that she had privately decided that the boss had gone missing because Iron Man had turned criminal and kidnapped him. Happy had tried to reassure her that that wasn't the case, but it wasn't like there was much he could say to that without giving away the boss's secret.

But her worrying had set Happy worrying. Obviously, the boss hadn't kidnapped himself, but there was no way he'd killed that ambassador guy either, which meant that somebody else must've done it, and maybe that somebody had gotten his hands on Tony.

It could have been the Chameleon, shape-shifted to make himself look like the armor. That was the best option, probably. If it wasn't him, then some bastard had taken the boss out and stolen his armor, and for all Happy knew, Tony might be tied up in a broom closet somewhere, completely helpless without his armor.

If that was so, Happy needed to find him before his batteries ran down, and that bum ticker of his stopped.

Pepper had finally sent Happy off with a flea in his ear and orders not to come back without the boss. He'd decided to make Tony's office his first stop, just in case the boss had left some kind of a clue there. If not, he was going to have to call the Avengers and ask them for help, and Happy was never entirely sure he trusted the Avengers, for all that he'd heard the boss sing Captain America's praises. He definitely didn't trust them to know to take care of Tony; they were as in the dark on Iron Man's true identity as anyone else, so who knew what they were thinking about him right now.

The office was empty, as Happy had expected, but the door to the boss's workroom in back was open a crack. Tony was super-paranoid about his armor, and that workroom was where he did his tinkering on it; you needed all kinds of passwords and finger-print clearances and other security mumbo-jumbo to get in there. There was no way the boss would ever just leave it open like that.

Happy nudged the door open and edged in sideways, to make a smaller target for anybody that might be waiting to jump on him, his right hand already bunched into a fist.

Nothing happened. The room was dark and, as far as Happy could see, empty.

He reached around behind him and flicked on the light switch.

The boss was huddled in a ball in the far corner of the lab, not moving. He was wearing the armor's red breastplate, and the right gauntlet; the rest of the armor was scattered around him on the floor, except for the left gauntlet, which was lying in the middle of the floor, a couple of feet away.

All right, so, it looked like the boss wasn't tied up in a broom closet somewhere after all, but Happy wasn't sure this was an improvement.

Happy went over and put a hand on the boss's shoulder. Tony jerked a little, and looked up at him, face blank. Something about his eyes made Happy guess that the boss wasn't really seeing him.

"There wasn't any blood," Tony said, voice a hoarse whisper. "He's dead, and there wasn't even any blood."

Happy crouched down in front of him, one hand still on his shoulder. "Look, Boss," he said, trying to make his voice gentle, "you know and I know that you didn't kill that guy." He had no idea what had actually happened, but he knew that much had to be true.

Tony shook his head, but Happy ignored that and pressed on; they didn't have time for the boss to fall apart right now. Happy needed to get him up and moving. He was always better when he was doing something. "Pep's out there on her own trying to keep the sharks away, but you gotta get out there and help. She can't hold them off forever. You're not going to let whoever did kill him get away with it, are ya?"

"No, you're right." Tony shook his head once, hard, as if trying to clear it. "I can't hide in here." He started to stand, and Happy grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet.

The boss pulled away from him immediately and began pacing back and forth, somehow managing to avoid stepping on or tripping over any of the pieces of armor on the floor. "You're right. Iron Man can't stay missing forever, or the authorities will never leave us alone. I've got to call Fury."

"You're not going to turn yourself in, are you, boss?" Happy blurted out, appalled at the idea. "You didn't do it!"

Tony winced, shaking his head again. "No, I can't turn myself in. The company would go to pieces. I'll turn a set of the armor over to SHIELD and tell them Iron Man left it with me, and that I don't know where he is."

"Fury's not going to like that," Happy observed glumly.

Tony smiled wryly, an expression with no real humor in it. "He'll like it even less when he figures out that the armor I'm going to give him is an old suit with all the essential circuitry stripped out, but it'll take SHIELD at least a day to figure that out and that'll give me time to start working on what happened."

Happy hadn't actually thought the boss would hand his real suit of armor over, but it was still good to hear it. And it was good to know he'd come up with some kind of a plan, but... "How are you gonna do that if Iron Man's stuck 'in hiding?'"

"What ever went wrong-" the boss broke off, looking down at the gauntlet he was still wearing, face closed. "Whatever went wrong, it had something to do with the armor." He pulled the gauntlet off, setting it gently on one of the workbenches, then reached for the fastenings on the breastplate. "I need to tear it down, go over it piece by piece to see what the problem is."

"And when you find out who was messing with it..." Someone must have sabotaged it; it was the only other explanation that made sense, now that Happy knew it hadn't been the Chameleon or something. The boss wasn't careless enough to make mistakes with his armor, not mistakes like that, anyway.

The boss gave him a smile that looked a little wobbly around the edges. "If I find out that someone sabotaged it," he said, "then I'll see to it that they're brought to justice."

Happy nodded, and took hold of the boss's arm, tugging him toward the door. "Good," he said. "Now come on. Pep's already looking for you, and you know how she hates being kept waiting."

"Thanks for coming to get me, Hap," the boss said, pulling away and straightening his shirt and tie. "Sorry I left you two in the lurch."

The two of them walked out into Tony's office, and Happy closed the door behind them, hearing the click of the locks reengaging. "Hey, no problem, boss." Neither of them was ever going to bring this up again, he knew, anymore then they'd ever talked about the times Happy had found the boss unconscious on the floor of his office and had to carry him into the workroom to get plugged in and recharged. "Just part of the job."

* * *

"This must all be some foul trick," Thor insisted forcefully, "meant to make us doubt our fellow Avenger. Or perhaps some villain was controlling him against his will."

Steve hoped that was true; he hated to contemplate the alternative. He tried to ignore the insistent voice of logic that pointed out that two Avengers being mind-controlled inside a month strained credulity.

"It must be some kind of mistake," Jan said, shaking her head. She was sitting on the couch, full size for once in deference to the gravity of the situation.

Without anyone mentioning it aloud, they had all unanimously decided not to discuss the situation in the conference room. It would have felt too much like passing judgment on Iron Man in his absence. As long as they were in the living room, they could at least keep the illusion that this was just a casual discussion.

"Whatever happened, it's going to be a disaster for Stark Industries," Jan went on. She paused for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. "Iron Man is Tony's friend, not just his bodyguard; he would never cause that much trouble for the company on purpose."

If one were willing to murder an innocent man in cold blood, causing trouble for one's employer's company probably wasn't much of a sticking point. Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortably.

The rest of the team looked like they felt just as ill at ease as he did. Thor was standing with his arms folded across his chest, glowering as if already contemplating the punishment he would deal out to whomever had caused this mess. Jan's shoulders were slumped, her palms flat to the couch, fingers digging into the fabric. Hank, sitting on the couch across from her, was frowning, his chin resting on his uninjured hand. The splint had been removed from his right index finger, but his index and middle fingers were still bound together with tape to restrict movement; Steve suspected that all of the continued growing and shrinking might be causing it to heal more slowly than it otherwise might have.

"We have to consider the possibility that it was Tony Stark's mistake, not Iron Man's," Hank said gloomily. "There may be some design flaw in the armor, equipment failure instead of pilot error."

If that was the case, if it had been Stark's mistake, Iron Man was blameless. The fact that he was currently standing in Tony Stark's living room just made Steve feel like even more of a heel for hoping Hank was right.

No one had mentioned the worst possibility yet, at least, not outright. Steve sighed, and then said what he knew they were all thinking. "Or it might be exactly what it looked like, and Iron Man might have murdered the Carñelian ambassador, for some reason we don't know about."

The rest of the team was silent, staring at Steve mournfully. Well, Thor looked mournful. Hank and Jan looked... guilty?

Steve glanced back over his shoulder, and with a sinking stomach, beheld Tony Stark standing in the doorway.

He was wearing the same shirt he'd had on yesterday at breakfast, now wrinkled past repair, and he had clearly neither slept nor shaved since the last time Steve had seen him. His eyes were red, and there was a general air of brittle exhaustion about him. "Next you're going to suggest that maybe he was acting on my orders, right?"

Steve wished miserably that the floor would open up and swallow him, or maybe that he was back in France facing a German panzer brigade. For half a second, he contemplated lying and denying this, but Stark's feeling aside, it was a possibility that they needed to address. "Well, was he?" he asked.

Stark winced, looking away. Steve wasn't sure if that was a positive sign, or a negative one.

The suddenly leaden silence was broken by Jarvis, who swept into the room with his normal unflappable demeanor, as if they weren't all standing around trying to find a polite way to accuse his boss of murder.

"The... gentleman from SHIELD is here to see you, sir," he said, with a slight stress on the word 'gentleman' that implied that he thought Fury was anything but.

"Thanks, Jarvis," Stark said. "Tell him I'll be with him in a minute." He gave Jarvis a strained smile that was painful to look at. "I've asked Nick Fury to meet me here. I'm going to turn the armor over to him, so SHIELD can examine it," he explained to the rest of them.

That was when Steve registered the briefcase Stark was clutching in one hand, his grip so tight that his knuckles were a bloodless white. Presumably, it held the armor.

Steve hadn't thought it would fit into such a comparatively small container. He hadn't thought that Iron Man was able to take it off at all.

If he had been wrong about the armor serving as some sort of life-support system, what else might he have been wrong about?

Nick Fury was waiting in the front hallway, leaning against the wall, an unlit cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. Unsurprisingly, Dum Dum Dugan was with him, as was a large blond man Steve didn't know, who was also wearing a SHIELD uniform.

Steve, Thor, Jan, and Hank had followed Stark in, though whether they were there for moral support or as an armed escort was anybody's guess.

"Where's your bodyguard, Stark?" Nick said, glancing lazily around the front hall in a way that Steve knew was not as casual as it looked. "I'm supposed to take him into custody."

"I don't know," Stark said, voice flat. "He's disappeared. He left me the armor to give to you." He held the briefcase out toward Nick. The blond agent stepped forward and took it.

He glanced down at the briefcase in mild surprise as Stark relinquished it, his arm sagging as he took its full weight. "This thing weighs a ton. What's in it?"

"The armor," Dum Dum told him, in a tone of voice that implied that the agent was not going to be getting a promotion any time soon. "That case isn't going to explode when he opens it to make sure you're not putting one over on us, is it?"

Stark shook his head. "That's the other briefcase." He attempted another smile, with even less success, and flexed the fingers of the hand that had been holding the briefcase, as if trying to work the stiffness out of them.

"Well now," Nick drawled. "So ya don't know where he is. That's mighty convenient."

Stark didn't acknowledge the insinuation, staring levelly at Nick. "We both want to know how this could have happened."

"As do we all," Thor rumbled. He was watching the three SHIELD agents closely, his arms folded across his chest in a way that managed to make him look even bigger than usual -- and he was already one of the few people Steve had to look up at.

Nick raised his good eyebrow at Thor. "I don't suppose the rest of ya know where Iron Man is?"

"No," Thor said, in tones that discouraged further inquiries. "We do not."

Hank opened his mouth as if about to speak, then shut it and looked down, starting to fiddle with the tape on his fingers.

If Steve were Nick, he would now be convinced that the Avengers knew exactly where Iron Man was, and were deliberately stonewalling him. As it was, if Steve hadn't known for a fact that none of the team knew, he would have been suspicious himself.

"I've been going over it all night," Stark said, nodding at the briefcase, "and I can't figure out what happened. Maybe your people will have better luck." He shook his head. "I don't know what went wrong," he went on, words picking up speed as he went. "None of the wires are corroded, none of the connections are broken, all of the electronic elements are working properly, the code is error free, all of the moving parts are fine -- there isn't even any metal fatigue in the joints." He punctuated this speech with short, sharp hand gestures, voice getting more and more emotional. "There isn't so much as an improperly threaded screw!" Stark threw up his hands, then let them fall, turning away and running a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a second. "I have no idea what I did wrong," he said softly.

Steve had never seen Stark this upset; his misery was too obviously raw to be faked. Was he upset because he believed what he said, that Iron Man was innocent and that the flaw was in the armor, and he was in some way responsible for a man's death, or was he upset because he knew Iron Man had betrayed him and committed murder but for some reason wasn't willing to turn him over to the authorities? Or maybe Stark was just a very, very good actor, and had orchestrated the whole thing himself, setting Steve's teammate up to take the fall for him. Or maybe they were in it together.

He didn't know what to think anymore, and the frustration made him want to grind his teeth. "Maybe there isn't anything wrong with the armor," he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

Stark actually flinched. "This is my fault," he said, meeting Steve's eyes for the first time since he'd walked in on the Avengers' discussion. "I killed him," he went on, dully, "not Iron Man. I'm the one who screwed up."

"Believe me," Nick said dryly, "if I find out he was acting on your orders, I'll be back for you. Consider this your warning not to leave the country."

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere." Stark's shoulders were slumped now, his voice completely empty of animation, as if he'd run out of energy.

Jan stepped forward and laid a hand on Stark's arm. "SHIELD's going to have their best people working on it. Maybe one of them will be able to see something you couldn't." She cocked her head to one side, peering up at him, and wrinkled her nose. "Tony, have you actually slept in the past twenty-four hours? Or eaten anything?"

"No," Hank said promptly. Stark blinked at him, frowning, and he added, "What? I never take breaks when I'm working on something important. I bet he doesn't, either."

Stark rubbed at his face with one hand, and shook his head. "I haven't had time for that."

Maybe it really was the armor. Maybe Stark had been upset and tired enough to miss something.

The man Steve knew, the one he'd fought beside, the one he'd spent all those nights with, talking about everything and nothing, wouldn't have murdered an innocent man. The person who'd told Steve that he had been given a second chance and wanted to prove himself worthy of it by saving people, who'd confessed after Thor had been controlled by the Enchantress that the idea of being used as a weapon gave him the creeps ("The armor could have caused a lot of damage,"); that man would never have done this.

Steve turned to Nick. "If Iron Man shows up here, we'll contact you." He hoped Iron Man had the sense to stay far away. He didn't want to have to be the one to turn him in.

"You do that," Nick said, giving Steve a look that conveyed his doubt that the Avengers would do any such thing. Then he left, Dum Dum and subordinate in tow.

The door closed behind them, and for a long moment, no one spoke.

"There's nothing else you can do at this point," Steve told Stark. "Why don't you go get some rest?"

"You guys know this isn't what it looks like, right?" Stark asked, once again meeting Steve's eyes directly, as if the answer were too important to risk misreading Steve's expression when he gave it.

"We know this is not Iron Man's doing," Thor assured him, sounding almost offended that Stark could think otherwise. "The fault lies neither with your liegeman, nor with your armor. Some enemy who wishes you ill must have influenced him, as the Enchantress did to me. We know both of you are blameless."

Stark smiled at him, a real smile this time, though the tiredness did not leave his eyes. "Thanks, buddy. I'll tell old Shellhead you said that."

"If you see him," Hank put in.

Jan jabbed him in the side with an elbow; Steve wondered what that was about.

"Go rest, Mr. Stark," Steve said. "We'll call you if SHIELD tells us anything."

He just hoped that their next contact with SHIELD wasn't going to be request to help Nick take down Iron Man.

* * *

As always, thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favorites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us .

Oh, and to the anonymous reviewer (wuss) who asked why characters could never just be platonic friends? I write many characters as platonic friends (hence half the fic on my profile being gen or het), but Steve & Tony are never going to be among them. You have the entirety of western media to satisfy your non-slash tastes, so it oughtn't to be a problem.


	7. Iron Man: Murderer? part 2

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.5 - Tony Stark - Murderer? 2/3  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** This fic is not quite so fluffy as the previous ones. The general PG-level rating is probably closer to PG-13 on this one. No slash yet, although hints are starting to show through.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Plot blatantly stolen from Iron Man volume 1, issue #124-128. Yes, we're compressing timelines kind of a lot introducing this arc while the Heinrich Zemo storyline is still going on, but come on, you knew it was coming from the first moment Justin Hammer showed up.  
**Summary:** The Avengers' trust in a team member and in their financial sponsor is tested when Iron Man is accused of murder.

As always, our thanks to **tavella** for the great beta job; this would be full of hideously embarrassing spelling errors if not for her.

* * *

_**Chapter Two**_

Technically speaking, Tony had a very expensive and spacious apartment near the Stark Industries complex. He almost never used it, except for when he brought a date home for the night, preferring to sleep in his workroom, or, sometimes, at the Avengers Mansion. Except that right now, he wasn't sleeping at any of those places, because he couldn't sleep.

Cap had told him that he ought to get some rest, and Cap was generally right about these sorts of things, especially considering that Tony hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours. Every time he tried, he kept remembering the way Sergio had been laughing at his stupid joke only second before he died. No, being honest, only seconds before Tony had killed him.

He could still smell the scent of charred flesh. It had been over a day, and he could still smell it.

Being in his workroom, surrounded by his equipment and the armor, ought to have made him feel better. It was where he went to decompress after long days at work, or hard fights. It wasn't working this time, though. This wasn't something he could escape from.

He had been lying down on the cot in one of the darker corners of the workroom, trying without success to fall asleep, but he'd ended up lying there for nearly an hour without any luck.

He'd eventually decided to enlist some assistance. The Napoleon brandy he kept stored in his office in case some important visitor needed schmoozing was very expensive and very good, but thus far, hadn't proved very helpful.

Now he was sitting up on the cot, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the way the light from the room's various computer screens reflected in his half-empty glass, and trying once again to figure out what had happened to the armor yesterday. He still had no idea what he had done wrong. Obviously, he'd done something wrong, because Sergio was dead, but what?

The armor lay in a neat pile on the nearest lab bench, the red and gold metal gleaming mockingly. Tony had checked it for every kind of damage, maintenance failure, or design flaw he could think of. As far as he could tell, it was perfect, flawless.

This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen to him. He was an engineering genius. He was even better at mechanical design than he was at convincing women to get naked and horizontal with him. Or sometimes naked and vertical. Or convincing men to get naked with him, regardless of position.

Happy thought someone had set him up. Happy always believed in Tony, even though he usually didn't deserve it.

Thor hadn't blamed him either, but Thor was probably just being nice, and in an extra forgiving mood after the incident with the Enchantress.

Jan thought it was an accident, that old Shellhead had screwed up. Hank thought Tony Stark had screwed up. And worst of all, Cap thought that he'd done it on purpose, or at least, was worried that he might have.

Cap thought he was capable of murdering a man in cold blood. Of ordering his bodyguard to murder a man in cold blood.

Tony finished the rest of his glass of brandy in one long swallow. The heavy crystal decanter was sitting on the floor beside the cot. It was overly ornate, a relic of his father's tenure as head of SI.

He needed to have it replaced, Tony mused, as he refilled his glass. Something more streamlined, less Victorian. Maybe that would help make people stop comparing him to his father all the time and finding him wanting.

On the other hand, killing someone on the steps of the UN was definitely something Howard Stark had never done. The only blood on his father's hands had been third-hand, the blood of people killed by SI's weapons. If his father had ever killed anybody, it was probably for selling him faulty materials, and he would have done it via hired thugs. Good old Howard certainly wouldn't have done it by accident.

Rhodey didn't think it was an accident, either. Rhodey had called earlier, in spite of the fact that he was busy being a test pilot at one of the overseas plants and they hadn't talked in over a week -- time differences, and a consequence of the fact that they both had busy schedules. He thought it was, "a damn big coincidence that your gauntlet malfunctioned just in time to kill the ambassador of Carñelia. Come on, tell me there's someone who doesn't profit from that."

Maybe Rhodey and Happy and Thor had a point. Not about it not being Tony's fault -- it was his armor, he'd built it, anything it did was his fault -- but about someone having set this up.

Who would benefit from offing Carñelia's ambassador? The Mandarin liked anything that caused international discord, since this furthered his goal of eventually conquering all of Asia, if only by making the rest of the world less likely to interfere, but the Mandarin could never have gone this long after successfully pulling off a scheme without calling him up to gloat. Titanium Man would never have been this subtle. He stuck to purely physical attacks, usually while bragging loudly about how much bigger and stronger he was than Iron Man, which invariably made him look like an idiot when he lost. The Scarecrow had only been interested in stealing things. The Phantom had been hell bent on discrediting SI, but he was in jail. The Melter had it in for SI, too, or at least, had it in for Tony, but Cap and the others had taken him down and sent him packing off to Rykers Island as well.

The brandy was very good, but Tony couldn't even taste the smooth burn of it anymore. Dreadful way to treat good alcohol, of course, but he needed something to make the sight of Sergio's body go away.

It had helped after Afghanistan, when he couldn't relax because he'd had terrorists watching him for three months, ready to shoot him if he made the slightest slip, and had needed to be able to laugh and smile and charm people at parties to keep them from thinking that Tony Stark had gone over the edge while he was tied up in a cave. He couldn't be the force of personality that Howard Stark had been, so he had to be charming and personable, or at least confident. It had helped after Afghanistan, but it wasn't helping now.

Normally, he found that alcohol helped to dull things. Dull was good. Dull didn't hurt.

Maybe it wasn't about him. Maybe this was about Carñelia. Who would've had it in for their ambassador? There weren't any uprisings or impending military coups in Carñelia; that's why the board had agreed to let him put a factory there. So, not other Carñelians. Unless Sergio had some skeletons in the closet that no one knew about.

The whole factory and mining deal was off, obviously, and chances were any alliance with the US was off, at least for the foreseeable future. Somebody must have wanted to prevent America from increasing its presence in South America. Which was... most of South America, probably. But especially Vespugia, because they wanted to continue their efforts to strip mine half the Amazon jungle without people telling them that they couldn't use what was effectively slave labor when they did so.

Maybe it was Vespugia. From what he'd heard about the place from Fury, he wouldn't be surprised. Maybe it was old Mandy, and he was branching out from Asia. Hell, he didn't know anymore.

Whoever it was, they must have tampered with the armor in some way. Remote signals, maybe. He might have over-looked that, since he'd been looking for mistakes and not outside interference.

Given how many people had suggested the possibility, it was incredibly stupid of him not to have looked for it earlier. He needed to go over the armor again.

Tony set his empty glass down very carefully on the floor. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, one hand braced against the wall, then sat again abruptly as the floor tilted under him.

Woops. Two days without sleep was clearly catching up to him. He would look at the armor tomorrow. Maybe if he gave himself a few hours away from it, a few hours of sleep, he'd be able to look at it with fresh eyes and figure out what the hell had been done to it.

If he knew what had happened, then he'd know who.

Cap hadn't answered him when Tony had asked him if he really thought he was guilty.

The alcohol was supposed to make him numb. Anes... anesthetize things. Why wasn't it working?

Maybe one more drink would help. Maybe then he'd finally be able to sleep.

* * *

Stark Industries was a subdued place this morning; you could practically sense the employees' fear over the state of their continued employment as they hurried silently through the hallways, heads down.

Justin Hammer, observing it, felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Stark Industries stock was at rock bottom, lower than it had been since its dramatic drop after Howard Stark's death. Even Anthony Stark's ill-considered decision to cease producing munitions hadn't caused market shares to plummet this far.

Hammer had seen many a company collapse in his time, generally just before he bought the entire firm out lock, stock, and barrel, and SI had that feel to it now, the feel of desperation.

It was beautiful to behold. Originally, he'd simply planned to drive Stark out of business so that he'd stop interfering with Hammer Industries' contracts, but as he strode through the long hallway of the SI complex's main building, it occurred to him that once this entire business was through, SI would be ripe for a hostile takeover.

There was a certain justice to the concept, given the amount of business both Starks had stolen from him over the years.

The door to Stark's office was firmly shut. The man's red-headed snip of a secretary tried to bar him entrance, insisting that no one got in to see Mr. Stark without an appointment. Hammer ignored her, easily sidestepping her attempt to physically bar the door and throwing it open.

When he was occupying Stark's office, he decided, the minimalist modern desk would be the first thing to go, followed by the framed TIME Magazine cover photo of Iron Man on the wall, not to mention the giant bookshelf of engineering manuals.

The floor-to-ceiling picture window behind Stark's desk was impressive, but the entire office was too plain, barren, obviously the workplace of a man who had other priorities than business, who cared more about impressing supermodels than making the proper impression on prospective business partners.

The set of cut-crystal decanters by the side wall could stay, though, he decided. They must be a hold-over from Howard Stark's tenure as CEO; they'd clearly been chosen by a man with taste.

Stark glanced up when he entered, a look of blank surprise on his face. There was a pale, greyish cast to his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. The stress of the past two days was obviously taking its toll.

"I came to offer my sympathies," Hammer said, giving Stark a smile that he was sure had all the warmth of frostbite. He could be polite, but pretending to actually like the little brat was beyond him. "Who would have guessed that your bodyguard was capable of such a thing?" he went on, before Stark could respond. "I suppose SHIELD will find that someone was paying him off, or that the man simply snapped under the strain of being a superhero."

"SHIELD is handling the investigation." The secretary's voice came from behind him, loud and pointed. The woman had followed Hammer into the room, and was now standing by the doorway, one hand on her hip and a look of annoyance on her face. "They've requested that we not discuss it with the press, or with anyone else who isn't directly involved in the investigation."

"Of course, of course," Hammer said smoothly. "My mistake. I didn't mean to pry, but you can forgive a man some curiosity, I'm sure. I guess it just goes to show that superheroes don't make for the most reliable of employees." Neither did supervillains, in his experience. Once a man put on a mask and stared calling himself by a funny name, he tended to get above himself and forget who was holding the purse strings and giving the orders.

Not that that had happened with Iron Man, as far as he knew, but it had happened often enough in Hammer's experience with super-powered employees to be a trend.

"Such a shame you're having such trouble, Stark," Hammer went on. "Now that you've got all these legal trouble on your plate, all of those military and government contracts might prove too time-consuming and difficult to meet. Naturally, I'd be more than happy to take them off your hands."

Since he'd begun losing business to Stark Industries six months ago, Hammer had dreamed of the day he'd find himself standing in Stark's office with the tables turned. The reality was even sweeter than he'd imagined. Stark stared at him blankly, obviously too overwhelmed to even make an attempt at saving face. He had to know his company was on the verge of collapse, and was too shaken and defeated to even make an attempt at salvaging the situation.

"You can gloat on your own time, mister," the secretary snapped. "You might have so little business over at Hammer Industries that you can afford to spend half the day hanging around here, but we've got work to do. Happy, escort this gentleman out and see that he stops wasting Mr. Stark's time."

The doorway to Stark's office was suddenly filled by a tall, broad-shouldered individual who had "thug" written all over him; his flattened nose looked like it had been broken multiple times, and his suit fit him with an awkwardness that indicated a man not accustomed to wearing expensive business attire.

"With pleasure, Miss Potts," he said, eyeing Hammer with a sort of mournful dislike. He, like the employees in the hallway, had clearly seen the writing on the wall and knew that his days of steady employment were numbered.

Hammer offered the secretary his most charming smile. "You misunderstand me, Miss... Potts, was it? I simply came to offer Anthony here my condolences, as one businessman to another." They both knew that wasn't the case, but the forms had to be observed. "But as I can see that he's preoccupied, I'll see myself out."

"Good," Stark's thug said shortly. "You can come with me."

It was, Hammer sensed, time to leave before he overstayed his already thin welcome. He had come to see Stark's defeat for himself, not to get himself thrown out by Stark's bully boys.

Ah, well. He would be back.

Hammer could sense the bodyguard's lumbering presence behind him as he retraced his steps down the hall. This time, an engineer in a grease-stained lab coat looked up as he passed, presumably because of his hired-muscle escort. The engineer smirked at him.

Hammer marked the man's face, so that he would know who to fire first once he had absorbed the place into Hammer Industries.

He had won. Stark was on his way out, and he had no idea that Hammer had been the mastermind behind his downfall.

After weeks of trying to find himself an in at Stark Industries, Hammer had had the good luck to come across Dr. Birch, a physicist in SI's R&D section who had been frustrated at his situation. Apparently, he'd nursed a growing resentment of Stark over the fact that the man's series of technical and scientific breakthroughs had stolen the limelight away from his own more modest scientific achievements.

It had been all to easy to convince Birch to sabotage Stark's equipment, and though that strategy had unfortunately come to dead end, thanks to Iron Man's interference, Birch, during his fight with Iron Man, had been able to observe Stark's armored bodyguard in action. Thanks to the apparently delayed reaction of one of the man's gauntlets, he had been able to use his own equipment to spot the armor's energy signal changing just before it fired.

Birch was in a cell on Rykers island now, but Hammer had paid him well, and he had kept his mouth shut about who had hired him, pretending the entire thing had been his idea. More importantly, he had passed along the information about the gauntlet.

A team of Hammer's best computer scientists had used the information to devised an electronic signal that could trigger the gauntlet to fire, though it only functioned at very close range. He had needed Heinrich Zemo's assistance to get a man in place in the Carñelian delegation, but since Vespugia stood to benefit considerably from Ambassador Larocca's death and the subsequent breakdown of US-Carñelian relations, El Presidente had been more than happy to oblige.

When the camera flash had gone off and the transmitter inside the camera had triggered Iron Man's gauntlet, Hammer had felt a sense of satisfaction that he'd previously only derived from closing billion-dollar business deals.

The fact that El Presidente Zemo now owed him a favor of considerable size was only the icing on the cake. Unlike Zemo, who in spite of all his ranting and threats hadn't so much as managed to touch Captain America, Hammer had now dealt with his major opponent.

Hammer climbed back into his limo with a light heart and the satisfying sense of a job well done. Howard Stark's spoiled brat of a son would be a thorn in his side no longer.

* * *

Hammer strode out of Tony's office as if he owned the place, which was a difficult feat to pull off when you were being escorted out of a building under guard. Tony had known that all of his business rivals had to be secretly celebrating the disaster his life had turned into, but none of the others had felt the need to actually come to his office in person to gloat.

Who actually did that? Who in the name of God did Hammer think he was, Montgomery Burns? Even Norman Osborn had contented himself with sending a smug email.

"I'm so sorry," Pepper said.

Hammer imported half his raw materials from Vespugia, and probably exported not a few weapons through them as well, including Fury's Latverian adamantium.

"He just burst in," Pepper went on, "and I-"

"It was him!" Tony surged to his feet, feeling energized for the first time in days. "That arrogant old--" he broke off, vocabulary temporarily failing him, and started to pace, too angry to keep still. It all fit together so neatly. Hammer and his Vespugian buddies frame Iron Man for Sergio's murder, all diplomatic relations between the US and Carñelia grind to a screeching halt, Carñelia's attempts to get the US to join in a trade embargo against Vespugia fall apart, and Hammer gets to continue to keep his costs low by buying cheap Vespugian metal ores and oil, meanwhile, Tony Stark and Stark Industries go down in flames, and Hammer gets the opportunity to puts in bids for all of those defense contracts again, including the SHIELD Helicarrier. There was no way in hell Fury was going to give that one to him, but Hammer wouldn't believe that, of course. "It has to be him!"

Pepper was staring at him, he realized. Tony forced himself to come to a halt, to stand still. He probably looked a little crazy right now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The armor had been sabotaged. It wasn't something he had done.

"Mr. Stark," Pepper said, peering at him with obvious concern, "Tony, are you feeling all right?"

"He's involved up to his neck in Vespugian exports and he's trying to drive my company out of business," Tony explained, starting to pace again. It took four steps to go from his desk to the book case. Four steps in the other direction took him to the door of his workroom. "You heard him going on about all those contracts we took out from under him."

Pepper eyes widened as she picked up on his meaning. "You think he got to Iron Man somehow, bribed him to-"

"What?" Tony blinked at her, temporarily derailed. He knew Pepper wasn't crazy about Iron Man, but she couldn't actually think that he would take bribes from the likes of Justin Hammer, much less kill a man. "No! Of course not," he snapped. But Cap had believed he might have. "No," he said again, more quietly. "He sabotaged the armor somehow. Damn it, I still don't know how. Hold all my calls, Pep; I'll be in my workroom."

Pepper looked less than thrilled. Tony ignored her irritated expression, ducking quickly into his workroom and closing the door behind him. She generally looked like that when he made that kind of announcement.

Half an hour later, Tony's sudden burst of energy was gone, the dull headache he'd had all morning was back, and he was no closer to understanding what the hell Hammer had done to his armor than he'd been last night.

"He has to have done something!" Tony shouted, flinging a screwdriver against the wall with enough force that it bounced halfway across the room and skidded to a stop against the far edge of the lab bench. "What is it and how the hell did he do it?"

Approximately two seconds, Pepper's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Stark, a reporter from the Daily Bugle wants to talk to you. For that matter, so do two of our main communications customers, not to mention half the board of directors."

"Tell them I'm busy," Tony snapped. He knew exactly what the board of directors would have to say to him; there was a reason he'd been avoiding them for the past day and a half.

He knew it was Hammer. It had to be Hammer. And that meant that Hammer's people had to have manipulated that gauntlet into firing somehow.

Tony's shoulders sagged, the brief surge of anger draining away as his earlier energy had. He stared dully at the disassembled repulsor apparatus, which remained stubbornly unbroken and un-altered in any fashion that he could discern.

Until he could find whatever Hammer had planted in his armor, or undo whatever had been done, there was no way he could wear it. Iron Man was off limits and he was stuck being plain old Tony Stark. And apparently he could even do that properly anymore.

He was supposed to be an engineering genius. There weren't supposed to be technological problems that he couldn't solve.

Tony sighed, and went to pick up the thrown screwdriver. Before he could return to his increasingly pointless work on the armor, he heard the hollow click of the intercom activating once more.

"Colonel Fury is on the phone, sir," Pepper informed him. "He wants to know, and I quote, 'What the hell is up with that god-damned fake armor you gave him.'"

"Oh," Tony said. "That." He had almost forgotten about Fury. He had expected to have figured out how the armor had been tampered with by this point, to have some kind of proof to hand Fury when he showed back up to demand an explanation, even if it was only proof of exactly how Tony had screwed up.

"Yes. That." Pepper said, voice absolutely level in a way that Tony knew spelled danger. "Tony, I like you, and you pay me very, very well, but one of my new career goals is to not end up testifying in front of a grand jury. My mother would never let me live it down."

"Don't worry, if it gets that far, I'll probably be extradited to Carñelia anyway." He'd meant it to be a joke, but it probably came out sounding bitterer than he'd intended. A joke or two at his own expense was usually an effective distraction from questions he didn't want to answer, but the charming playboy act was getting a lot harder to pull off these days. It took more energy than he currently had.

"You know, I hear Oscorp is hiring these days."

Pepper sounded dead serious, but Tony knew it was a joke, because if she'd truly meant it, she would have named Rand Corporation, or some other company whose president she didn't actively hate. He couldn't help but feel pathetically grateful that she was letting him get away with shifting the conversation onto lighter ground.

"But do they have a dental plan?" he asked, forcing himself to sound as if this were any one of the many times Pepper had threatened to leave him for another employer, as if the possibility of Tony standing trial for Sergio's murder were no more serious than the time she had walked into his office and caught him and Veronica Vogue in flagrante delicto.

"An excellent one," she informed him solemnly. There was a long pause, while Tony tried to think of something clever to say in return, and failed utterly. Then she sighed, and when she spoke again, the solemnity in her voice was real. "This isn't a joke, Tony. SHIELD engineers say that the armor you turned over to Fury doesn't have enough circuitry in it to operate independently, so unless Iron Man is actually a robot that you operate by remote control, which they're not ruling out, by the way, you gave them a stripped-"

"Remote control!" It was so obvious. Tony could feel his whole body stiffening, a flash of his long-lost energy suddenly returning. Why hadn't he seen it? "Oh my God, I'm an idiot. Thanks, Pep. Remind me to give you a raise."

"What about Fury?" Pepper failed to sound mollified at the prospect of a raise.

"Stall him another day or so, can you?" Tony said, already returning his attention to the armor. If Hammer's people had somehow found a way to trigger his gauntlet remotely...

"What am I supposed to do when the SHIELD agents come to arrest you?" Pepper's voice broke in on his thoughts once again.

Theory wasn't enough, though. He needed proof.

Hammer was too arrogant, too self-confident, to cover his tracks completely. If he were the kind of man who took pains to eliminate all electronic and physical evidence, he wouldn't have come here to gloat.

If Tony could get into Hammer's office, into his files, he'd be able to find the proof he needed. He was sure he would. But if he was going to do that without the armor, he was going to need some way to defend himself in the event that he was caught. He couldn't ask anyone else to accompany him, not when he was planning to illegally break into Hammer's office and hack his computer, but might, he acknowledged reluctantly, be time to ask for help.

Tony shrugged, though he knew she couldn't see it. Fury wouldn't send agents to bring him in for at least another twelve hours; he needed to act quickly, but he wasn't completely out of tine yet. "Tell them it was Justin Hammer. I'll have proof for them by then."

The gauntlets' firing mechanism was activated by an electromagnetic signal triggered by Tony's subvocalised command -- or by the manual override he'd build in just in case -- and transmitted to the gauntlet via a series of electrical impulses. If Hammer had somehow learned the applicable energy signatures, he might have been able to broadcast a signal that mimicked the armor's internal commands. If it was close range, and powerful enough...

* * *

"I thought I told you to go and rest."

Stark might have vanished from the mansion yesterday, but looking at him now, Steve doubted that he'd actually gone home and gotten some sleep, as Steve had suggested. His suit was neatly pressed and he had clearly remembered to shave this morning, which put him one up on the last time Steve had seen him, but the dark circles under his eyes were still there.

"I did," Stark said. "Look, Cap, I... came to ask a favor."

Steve blinked, feeling himself start to frown. What kind of a favor could Tony Stark possibly want from him? He'd promised to call Stark if SHIELD told the Avengers anything new about their investigation, but he and the others had heard nothing from Nick since he'd confiscated Iron Man's armor.

He'd made his suspicions of Stark plain the last time they had spoken -- more plain than he really felt comfortable with, now that he was face to face with the other man again. He owed Tony Stark a great deal, and while he couldn't afford to ignore the possibility that Stark had been responsible for the Carñelian ambassador's death... looking at him now, he didn't look like a man who would use a friend to commit cold blooded, calculated murder.

He looked like a soldier who'd been in combat too long. Steve had seen too many men stretched almost to the breaking point, men who jumped at small sounds, men whose hands shook, who jerked awake gasping from nightmares, who couldn't relax even when they were faraway from the front. Stark had the same sort of look in his eyes now, like it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge.

"What kind of favor?" Steve asked.

"You may have noticed that I'm minus a bodyguard at the moment," Stark said, lips twitching into a rueful smile that was gone almost before it formed. "And considering how many people out there don't like me, I wouldn't mind knowing how to look after myself a little better."

Meaning what? Steve gave Stark a careful, considering look. As far as Steve could tell, he appeared to be unarmed, and since Bucky had been adept at hiding surprisingly large blades inside his clothing with barely a wrinkle or bulge in sight, Steve was good at spotting that sort of thing.

"I'm not going to hire a new bodyguard while Iron Man is," Stark hesitated, "away. Talk about a vote of no confidence." He shook his head, the motion causing a piece of hair to fall down across his forehead. "I wouldn't do that to him."

Steve offered him a smile for that. It made him think better of the man, that he wanted to avoid making any gestures to distance himself from Iron Man, despite the fact that he had to know that it would go better for him with the press if he did. Apparently, Stark stuck by his employees, and his friends, even when they were wanted for murder.

"I could give you a crash course in self-defense, if you want," he suggested. It was he least he could do, given that he'd been living in the man's house for a month.

"I'd... like that," Stark said, offering Steve another faint twitch of a smile. "Actually, that was the favor I was going to ask you for."

Some fifteen minutes later, the two of them were facing one across a wide expanse of mat in the Avengers' gym. Stark had traded his suit for sweatpants and an over-sized blue t-shirt with "MIT" written across the front. Steve had never seen him out of a suit and tie before; it made him look younger, like some college boy who ought to be taking sorority girls out on dates rather than the billionaire head of a major corporation worrying about threats on his life.

Steve himself was in his costume, complete with mask, but he'd left his shield leaning against the wall when he'd come in. He wasn't going to need it for this.

"Go ahead," he told Stark, as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, bringing his hands up in preparation for whatever Stark might be about to do. "Give it your best shot."

Stark's punch was clearly telegraphed, but his form was better than Steve had expected. It didn't do him any good, though, because Steve leaned sideways, out of the path of Stark's fist, grabbed Stark by the wrist and upper arm, and flipped him over his shoulder and into the gym wall.

Stark slide down the wall to the floor and sat there, blinking up at Steve, looking dazed and considerably impressed.

"That's your first lesson," he told Stark, doing his best not to sound smug. This was more fun than he'd expected. "If anyone offers you a sucker punch, they've probably got a reason. Don't fall for it."

"Right," Stark wheezed. "Noted." He climbed to his feet again, wincing slightly, and Steve made a mental note to use a little less force for the rest of the lesson. Stark was new at this, and he didn't have the benefit of supersoldier serum enhancing his endurance.

"Okay," Steve said. "First, we're going to teach you how to take a fall. You tensed up before you hit the wall. You don't want to do that; it makes the impact worse."

"I know, I know." Stark rotated his neck carefully, then stretched, like a man checking to see that everything was in proper working order. "Happy's told me that a dozen times. But you try not to tense when you're suddenly airborne with plaster coming at your face."

Steve raised his eyebrows.

Stark made a face. "Fine. You're perfect. Let's move on."

Stark was, overall, better than Steve had expected. He was in decent shape, for one. Actually, more than decent shape. He was on the thin side, yes, but there was solid muscle in his arms that must have been from welding, something all of those button down shirts and suit jackets usually concealed.

For another, someone had taught him at least the basics of boxing; he knew how to throw a punch. What he didn't seem to know was how to dodge one.

It wasn't until third time Stark took one of Steve's blows full on, without so much as trying to deflect it or move out of the way, that Steve realized what he was doing. He was trying to absorb the blow without flinching and catch Steve off guard while he was still off balance from throwing the punch (or, the third time, kick). It was something Steve had seen Thor do multiple times, something he'd seen Iron Man do as well, though it frequently resulted in Iron Man getting the stuffing beaten out of him, since even in the armor, he didn't have Thor's mass.

Stark, without either mass and partial invulnerability or armor, had even less success with this tactic than his bodyguard did.

"You've picked up a bad habit from your bodyguard," Steve told him, as he helped Stark to his feet again. "Both of you need to learn some self-preservation."

Stark frowned, straightening his shirt. Steve found himself idly wishing that he would just take it off, rather than continually trying to keep the fabric from getting rucked up or twisted. It was almost as if he were trying to hide his upper body, though there was nothing wrong with it as far as Steve could tell. Was he embarrassed by the fact that he didn't have rippling biceps or a perfect set of flat, defined stomach muscles? This was Tony Stark; surely he knew exactly how attractive he was?

The few glimpses he got of Stark's shoulder blades, of the curve of his back, of the edges of his collarbones, which peeked over the neckline of the shirt when he moved just right, were more distracting than they ought to have been. It was a shame the sweatpants were so loose.

Most men, he knew, didn't enjoy looking at other men, unless they were the sort who were given blue discharges for sexual misconduct. Steve had never been most men, but since the U.S. Army didn't care what kind of pin-ups you liked to look as long as they never caught you doing anything, he'd never had any trouble over it.

Steve had always avoided the issue by never doing anything but look. Girls might be significantly more intimidating and often, not quite as interesting once you stopped talking and started kissing, but they didn't draw attention to you. Well, not that he'd done much more than look with women, either, but there had been that one time in Paris with the Howling Commandos, a few French girls, and a lot of alcohol. That had been a lot of fun, especially the next morning, when Steve had been the only one who remembered everything that had happened the previous night. Marie-Rose had been very nice, very pretty, and able to keep a completely straight face when she backed up Steve's assertion that he'd seen Dum-Dum Dugan dipping Nick Fury in the middle of a drunken waltz to plant a kiss squarely on his sergeant's lips.

Nick still didn't know that Steve had made it up.

Stark tried a kick this time, and Steve hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him tumbling to the mat. This time, Stark landed properly, rolled, and came up in a crouch, left hand held up toward Steve, palm out. It was a gesture that was teasingly familiar, but before Steve could place it, Stark looked at his hand, blinked, and let it drop, climbing back to his feet and shifting into a defensive stance.

His dark hair was disheveled and damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, his chest was heaving as he panted for breath, and he was grinning widely, the same grin he'd worn when he told Steve about his plans to build SHIELD a flying aircraft carrier. "That's what I have a bodyguard for," he said, panting slightly, "and what Iron Man has armor for."

"Well," Steve told him, "until you get your bodyguard back," if he got his bodyguard back; if Iron Man was actually guilty, neither Stark nor Steve would be working with him again, "that's what you're here to learn."

Stark's grin faltered, and Steve found himself wishing he could take the words back. Now that they had both been reminded of the reason behind this sparring lesson, the fun seemed to go out of things.

"Right," Steve said, pushing the unwanted thoughts aside, "now I'm going to teach you something a little bit more exotic than a right hook."

Stark raised his eyebrows. "You do realize that that thing where you kick your feet higher than your head is not something that most of us are ever going to be able to do, no matter how much we practice?"

Steve shook his head. "No, what I'm going to show you is how to fight when you're up against someone who physically out-classes you, which is going to be just about anybody that someone's hired to come after you, because they're going to be professionals." And Stark wasn't exactly bulky.

Stark picked up the couple of judo moves Steve showed him much more quickly than he had how to fall properly. "It's all about leverage and momentum," he said, when Steve pointed this out, "which are some of the basic building blocks of mechanical design. I'm good at that kind of thing."

Steve climbed to his feet -- he'd allowed Stark to throw him, so that he could learn how it was done -- and straightened. He could feel himself grinning again. He hadn't been able to do this, spar with somebody like this, in far too long.

Stark was on one knee on the matt, head down; as Steve watched, a drop of sweat fell from the ends of his hair to land on the matt. He drew in a deep breath, then stood, wincing visibly at the movement.

"I think we're done for today," Steve said. Stark seemed more than ready to keep going, but it wouldn't do to overdo things on his first lesson. If Steve was being honest with himself, they probably ought to have quit a good fifteen minutes ago, but he'd been enjoying himself, and had allowed the lesson to go on longer than he otherwise might have; Stark had finally been allowing himself to relax again.

"My bruises are grateful," Stark said, with the self-deprecating little half smile that Steve had initially thought looked like a smirk. "I don't imagine you get much call for this sort of thing. No one out-classes you."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Steve offered him a grin, and handed him a towel. "I ran into a few German ex-boxers during the war who were built like Panzer tanks, including one guy that I'm pretty sure was actually a troll."

Stark's not-quite-smirk widened a little, turning into something honestly amused. He thought Steve was joking.

"He was green," Steve added.

"I'm not doubting you, but in my experience, that's usually a side-effect of radiation, not of being some kind of mythical creature." Stark buried his face in the towel, wiping away the sweat. "Thanks for the lesson," he added, the words slightly muffled by the cloth. "I'm sure it will come in handy under the current circumstances." He looked back up at Steve, amusement gone now. "Before Iron Man can come back, I have to figure out what's going on. It's too bad real life isn't like a Sherlock Holmes story, where everything has a logical solution and all I'd have to do to figure it all out would be to notice a set of suspicious scratches on someone's cufflinks."

"Things are never that easy." Real life, in Steve's experience, was always considerably messier than fiction. Life didn't have to have a happy ending.

Iron Man was a Sherlock Holmes fan, too. He'd leant Steve one of Stark's old books on Steve's first night at the Mansion, a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories inscribed "Happy 8th birthday, Tony." He'd said it was one of his favorites. One more item on the growing list of things Iron Man and Stark had in common.

Stark was staring off into space now, shoulders slumped, the towel hanging forgotten in one hand. "God, I hope it's all over soon," he said, softly. "I don't think I've gotten any real sleep since all of this started." The smile he flashed Steve was the same painful one he'd worn when Fury had come to confiscate the armor. "Though with the workout you've given me, maybe I'll be tired enough tonight that I'll actually be able to get some rest." He had that haunted, strained look in his eyes again, the one that reminded Steve of soldiers with battle fatigue.

"Doing something helps," Steve offered. "Sitting around and thinking just makes it worse."

Another attempt at a smile. "I guess those dreams about your partner are still keeping you up nights, too, huh?"

Stark knew about the nightmares? How the hell did Stark know about the nightmares? He'd told him about Bucky, but he'd only mentioned the guilt, not the dreams. The only person he'd spoken to about those was Iron Man. He couldn't very well deny that he was having them, though. Not when it was true, not when Stark obviously already knew.

"I can hear him yelling my name while I fall. I didn't really, but when I dream about it, I always do." It was strange to hear himself admitting it, especially here, to this man. Even stranger that it didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable. He liked Stark, but he'd never expected to find himself comfortable enough with him to admit to something so personal. Something that might make Stark, a man whose goodwill he was currently dependant on, think less of him.

Stark clearly didn't think less of him, though. He'd brought the nightmares up himself, as much as admitted to having some of his own. Iron Man must have mentioned them to him, unless... he couldn't imagine that Iron Man would have told anyone what Steve had confided in him during those late-night conversations, not even Stark.

Iron Man was left-handed, too. That moment, earlier, when Stark had flung up his left hand in front of him, palm out -- he'd seen Iron Man do that in fights more times than he could easily recall. That's why it had seemed familiar, and also why it had seemed slightly strange. It wasn't a normal defensive move from someone fighting bare-handed. It was the move of someone wearing a repulsor gauntlet.

He had to be jumping to conclusions. Stark couldn't actually be... Stark was staring at him, frowning, a concerned look on his face.

Steve looked away, rubbing uneasily at the back of his neck, and hoping that Stark couldn't tell what he was thinking. "If I could just get my hands on Heinrich Zemo..." he said, deliberately returning his attention to the conversation and not the suspicion suddenly filling his thoughts. They'd sworn not to ask about one another's secret identities, though admittedly, Iron Man was the only one who had one. "He's the reason we were on that plane in the first place." As distractions for himself worked, it was a good one. He could still see the gloating look on Zemo's face, just before the plane took off. If there were any justice in the world, Baron von Zemo would have been the one to perish in that explosion, not Bucky. It had been his plan, his explosives, his fault that Bucky had never gotten to see the end of the war, never gotten to go home. "But the war's been over for decades. I don't even know what happened to him in the end."

Stark shrugged. "Considering how many war crimes as he committed, he must have been dealt with years ago." He glanced down at the towel in his hand, seeming to notice it for the first time since the conversation had started. "I should go take a shower and get out of here before Fury comes calling."

Steve didn't want to know why Stark wanted to avoid Nick. If Stark told him, and Nick did in fact come looking for him, Steve would be obligated to pass the information along. Technically, he ought to mention his suspicions, too. Iron Man was officially a fugitive from justice.

If Stark was really Iron Man, Steve decided, there was no way he could be guilty. He was too obviously shaken by what had happened. True cold-blooded killers weren't haunted by their crimes. Steve had met enough to know.

Stark was at the door now, about to leave the room.

"I want you to know," Steve started, and Stark stopped, turned to look at him, and Steve suddenly realized that he wasn't really sure what he'd been about to say. "I, um, want you to know that you've got my full support if you need anything, and," he hesitated, unsure if he should continue, but then decided that it needed to be said even if he was right, maybe especially then, "tell Iron Man that I've still got his back."

Stark closed his eyes for a second, face twisting, then his expression smoothed out again. "Thank you, Cap," he said, voice rough. "You don't know how much -- I'll tell him that."

He looked... relieved. An open, raw relief that Steve didn't think Iron Man was guilty. That look confirmed Steve's suspicions. No one was that relieved to hear that you didn't think their employee was guilty of murder.

It explained so much; why Stark and Iron Man both talked with their hands, why Iron Man knew so much about Stark Industries technology, why Stark knew little things like how Steve took his coffee despite having spent comparatively little time around him. He'd eaten breakfast with Iron Man more than once.

Iron Man, like Stark, never had anything but coffee. Steve had initially thought that that was because he wouldn't be able to eat without taking off his helmet -- he'd drunk the coffee through a straw -- but now he knew better.

Tony Stark was Iron Man. Tony Stark was the man he'd been talking to when he couldn't sleep, sharing his past with, the one who shared Steve's taste in radio shows, the one who'd introduced him to the _Lord of the Rings_ and taught him how to make the Avengers communications equipment work and...

"Mr. Stark," he said, trying to keep his new knowledge out of his voice, "at this point I think you might as well call me Steve."

Stark smiled at him, a real smile this time, and held out a hand. "In that case, forget the Mr. Stark business. Call me Tony."

Steve took the offered hand, shaking it solemnly. "I'll see you this time next week, Tony. For lesson number two."

Tony nodded, still smiling, though a trace of that haunted look still remained in his eyes. "Count on it."

* * *

Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed, favrites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us!


	8. Iron Man: Murderer? part 3

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.5 - Tony Stark - Murderer? 3/3  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** This fic is not quite so fluffy as the previous ones. The general PG-level rating is probably closer to PG-13 on this one. No slash yet, although hints are starting to show through.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Plot blatantly stolen from Iron Man volume 1, issue #124-128. Yes, we're compressing timelines kind of a lot introducing this arc while the Heinrich Zemo storyline is still going on, but come on, you knew it was coming from the first moment Justin Hammer showed up.  
**Summary:** The Avengers' trust in a team member and in their financial sponsor is tested when Iron Man is accused of murder.

As always, our thanks to **tavella** for the great beta job; this would be full of hideously embarrassing spelling errors if not for her.

* * *

_**Chapter Three**_

Cap believed -- Steve believed that he was innocent. Really believed it, unlike yesterday, when he'd obviously doubted Tony's word. He had no idea what had changed Steve's mind, but the relief of knowing that he still had Steve's trust was almost staggering.

It was ridiculous that someone else's opinion of him, or Iron Man, mattered that much to him. Tony knew he was innocent, and with the amount of evidence against him, he should have expected everyone to suspect. He'd thought he was culpable, too, for a while; he couldn't expect anyone else to think any differently. And yet his fellow Avengers' doubts and mistrust -- Steve's mistrust -- had hurt.

Tony showered and dressed as quickly as he could. He had an appointment at Hammer Industries at three o' clock.

Fury had figured out that the armor Tony had tried to distract him with was a fake, and he probably wasn't going to have more than a few hours before someone from SHIELD tracked him down and arrested him. Only a few hours left to clear his name and gather evidence against Hammer. The self-defense lesson had cost him time, but knowing that Steve still respected him, still believed in him, was more than worth it. And anyway, Hammer had refused to schedule an earlier appointment, and Tony had needed to do something in the interim. Once he'd finished preparing for his visit to Hammer's office, there'd been nothing else left to at SI but sit around and drink and watch his company's stock drop, and that would have felt too much like admitting defeat.

Hammer's closest manufacturing plant was in New Jersey, but his main office was in downtown Manhattan. He was a businessman, pure and simple, not an engineer; he didn't need to be on-hand at his factory every day.

Tony drove down in the red Maserati; if he was going to confront Hammer, he might as well do it in style. Plus, the Maserati was smaller than the Ferrari, which let him weave between cars and shave a few minutes off the driving time. The Porsche handled better, but Hammer didn't merit the Porsche. Plus, if Happy ever found out that Tony had taken the Porsche through Manhattan at this time of day, he'd kill him.

There was a parking spot reserved for him in the building's garage, and a man in a well-tailored grey suit who exuded an air of polished blandness was waiting by the front desk to escort him to Hammer's office, but once there, he was unceremoniously ushered inside and told to wait. "Mr. Hammer is a very busy man," he was informed. "He's in a meeting right now, but he'll be in to see you at his earliest convenience."

Sean Chen had been Hammer's executive assistant for at least five years, going back to the days when Tony's father had still been running SI. He had long since mastered the art of smiling politely while letting you know exactly how unimportant you were.

Hammer's office was all massive wooden furniture and padded leather chairs, everything designed to make visitors feel small. It was like stepping into Howard Stark's old office, and made Tony feel about fourteen, as if he'd were waiting to be subjected to another lecture on how much of a disappointment he was.

Chen shut the door, leaving Tony alone in the office, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. Things were going better than he had had any right to hope for.

This part of the plan had been the biggest gamble. He had expected that Hammer would leave him to cool his heels for a suitable portion of time before seeing him -- that was the kind of thing Hammer did -- but there had been no guarantee that he would be left to wait in Hammer's office. Tony could just as easily have been ushered into some conference room, or made to wait outside by Chen's desk. Or even made to stand around by the front desk in the lobby, if Hammer wanted the attempt to humiliate him to be especially blatant. Any of those outcomes would have rendered the first half of Tony's plan null and void.

After a quick glance around the room to make certain that there were no security cameras -- there were none, of course, not here, where Hammer would have needed privacy to arrange his attempt to ruin Tony's life -- Tony reached for one of the knobs on the side of his watch, gave it a quarter turn, and pulled out the miniaturized flash memory stick concealed inside it.

The watch had taken Tony hours to put together; inside it was a tiny digital recording device, triggered by pressing one of the little metal buttons that, on a normal watch, would have adjusted the hour hand. It held nearly a gigabyte of data, and its flash memory drive could be removed and plugged into a computer's USB port.

The watch had been sitting around his workshop, half assembled, for weeks, and had been exactly what he needed to gather what dirt there was to find on Hammer; he'd gotten the idea from a Bond movie, though in that, it had been a camera.

Hacking into Hammer's computer was the work of minutes. Infiltrating Hammer Industries' network would have taken longer, but luckily for Tony, Hammer had been paranoid enough that he hadn't trusted his confidential data to a multi-user network. The information Tony was looking for was on his hard drive.

Well, some of it. He dredged up file after file documenting Hammer's business dealings with the president of Vespugia, including the sale of several hundred pounds of adamantium, in direct violation of the NATO agreement that forbade American manufacturers to sell adamantium to non-NATO countries.

Tony saved read-only copies of all of it to the flash drive, as he continued to scroll through Hammer's files. There was nothing about the Carnelian ambassador, nothing that he could use to clear his name, but more than enough to see Hammer indicted on at least half a dozen criminal charges, several of them federal.

Once he inserted the flash drive back into the watch, the data would all be automatically sent to Pepper's email account via an uplink to one of SI's communication satellites. Even if his upcoming confrontation with Hammer went badly, the information on Hammer's illegal activities would still get to SHIELD.

Tony finished saving copies of the files, removed the flash drive, and returned it to its place in his watch. He'd just felt it click back into place when the office door opened and Hammer stepped in.

Hammer, froze in the doorway, staring at Tony bent over his personal computer. There was absolutely no way to deny that he'd been going through the man's data.

"Chen," Hammer said calmly, "get me special security. Tell them there's a problem to be dealt with."

Tony gave Hammer his most obnoxious grin. He might as well brazen it out. "I've just been reading all about how much money you've made selling things to Vespugia," he said brightly. "Machine guns, anti-tank missiles, adamantium--"

"It appears I've underestimated you," Hammer interrupted. "You have a spine after all. Sadly, I seem to have over-estimated your intelligence."

Tony kept his smirk in place. "As you've probably figured out, I'm not here to beg you to buy out my company while it's still solvent. I've got everything I need to make sure that you go to jail for a long time. Or at least spend a very long time in court and a fortune in legal fees. It's going to make it hard for you to meet all of your current contracts, but SI will be happy to take them off your hands."

"Blackmail?" Hammer raised an eyebrow. "Crude, but effective. Your father would be proud of you." Three large security guards, armed with handguns, appeared in the doorway behind him and advanced on Tony.

"You framed me, you sonuvabitch," Tony spat, anger suddenly filling him with restless heat. He should have been afraid, he knew. He was unarmed and armor-less while Hammer's men had guns, and their employer had more than proven his willingness to have people killed. At the moment, however, he couldn't bring himself to care. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Sergei's body. "Maybe I can't get you put in jail for murder, like you deserve, but I can at least make sure you go to jail for something."

"Well, well," Hammer said, offering Tony a smile that held no warmth whatsoever, "it seems you're smarter than I had given you credit for, after all. Unfortunately for you and fortunately for me, not smart enough. It should have occurred to you that coming here to accuse me was not a wise idea. The successful businessman never challenges a competitor on his own turf. My security personnel are now going to relieve you of any weapons you might have tried to bring with."

The guards patted him quickly and professionally, finding no weapons, of course, because there were no weapons to find. Luckily, they didn't notice anything unusual about his watch; the recording device was still safe, busily saving Hammer's every word for posterity. That was the second part of the plan; getting Hammer to incriminate himself on tape.

Tony had been a little vague on how he was going to accomplish the third part of the plan, the part where he got himself back out of Hammer Industries alive. As one of the guards pocketed Tony's cell phone, it occurred to him that this might have been a mistake on his part.

"Who figured out the proper energy signal to trigger Iron Man's gauntlet for you?" Tony asked, throttling back his anger to try and match Hammer's casual tone. "I know there's no way you did it."

Hammer's smile widened a fraction. "That may have been one of the most elegant parts of all of this. One of your own employees sold you out. My people got the information from Dr. Birch, after his little escapade as the Phantom."

And just like that, Tony had everything he needed to clear his name. It would be a shame if he never got the chance to enjoy his upcoming freedom from murder charges. "I thought it might be something like that," he said. He'd suspected that Hammer's information had to have come from someone inside SI. It would have been next to impossible for someone to acquire the necessary information about the armor otherwise. At least it was someone who'd already proven himself untrustworthy; he'd been afraid Hammer would reveal that it had been someone still employed at SI, someone he trusted.

"How did you transmit the signal?" Tony asked, more for his own curiosity than for the record. Knowing that would make things easier when he redesigned the gauntlets to ensure that this could never happen again.

"The Vespugians had a man inside the Carnelian delegation, and they were more than happy to provide me with assistance." Hammer pulled a silver cigarette case out of his inside jacket pocket -- the same pocket Tony occasionally kept a flask in -- and withdrew a cigarette from it, before tucking the case back inside his suit coat. "El Presidente Zemo owes me a rather large favor now," he finished with a smile, lighting his cigarette.

Zemo was the name of the German officer who'd been responsible for Steve spending sixty years on ice. It couldn't possibly be the same man, Tony thought. Not after this many years. "Zemo, huh? That doesn't sound Hispanic." He nodded at Hammer's cigarette. "I though this building was a no smoking zone. I'm sure I saw a sign about it down in the lobby."

"It's not," Hammer said. "Heinrich Zemo is a German. Washed up in South America after the war, I believe, but being a resourceful man, he did quite well for himself."

The president of Vespugia was a Nazi war criminal? Tony knew he was probably gaping blankly at Hammer, and tried to school his face into a look of studied boredom to match the one the other man wore. Inside, however, his mind was racing. Hammer was in league with one of Steve's old enemies, and said enemy was not only still around but in a position of international power.

The men who had attacked the Avengers outside SHIELD's barbershop had spoken Spanish. Zemo must have sent them after Steve.

Steve needed to hear this. Tony shifted his weight slightly, readying himself. He had what he'd come for; it was time to get out of here now.

"I don't suppose you have any other questions, Stark?" Hammer drawled.

"Actually, I do." Tony could feel his lips stretching into a grin, the surge of manic energy he'd felt when he'd realized that Hammer had been the one behind everything returning. "I was wondering if your guard here knows what a clavicle is?"

The nearest of the three guards blinked at him. "Huh?" he said intelligently.

Tony hit him, hard, using the side of his hand in imitation of one of the Mandarin's karate blows, but throwing all of his weight behind it the way Steve had shown him. The man's collarbone made a satisfying cracking sound. "Surprise! It's what I just broke."

The man went to his knees, clutching at his shoulder and gagging from the pain. Tony began to turn to face the next guard, when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

The handle of the third guard's gun cracked into the side of his head, and Tony's legs abruptly stopped holding him up. The last thing he saw before he passed out was Hammer smirking at him.

* * *

Steve was right. He did need to learn how to duck.

This was the second time in as many days that he'd woken up on the floor with a blinding headache. This floor, however, was not the one in his workroom. That one was concrete. This one was polished wood.

Tony groaned, and put a hand to the side of his head, where the pain was the worst, wincing when his fingers encountered a hot, swollen ache that was going to become a bruise. He was lucky that guard hadn't cracked his skull open.

His watch, when he squinted at it, read 6:17. He'd been out for about two hours.

Tony sat up carefully; the world stayed put around him, and his vision was clear. The one time he'd known for sure that he'd had a concussion, after Titanium Man had thrown him through the side of a building, he'd been too dizzy to stand, and everything around him had been blurred out of focus. He probably didn't have one now. At least, not a major one.

Hammer's security guards had dumped him in a conference room, which had been hastily stripped of most of its furniture; the conference table that should have filled the middle of the room was gone, but the scuff marks on the floor where its legs had stood were still visible.

Whomever had stripped the room had taken the chairs, too, but had left the abstract oil painting on the far wall, as well as the dark wooden sideboard and cabinet underneath it. The cabinet was built into the wall, which was probably why it was still there; Tony must not be important enough for Hammer to destroy a conference room on his behalf.

The doors, of course, were locked. He hadn't expected anything else.

He rattled the door handle anyway, and said, loudly, "You know, the accommodations here leave something to be desired."

"Don't worry," returned a voice from the other side of the door, the sound muffled by the wood. "You're not going to be staying here long."

Right. The door was guarded. He might as well scratch any attempts to pick the lock.

A brief check revealed that the guards had completely emptied his pockets, so lock picking would have been impossible anyway. They'd also taken his shoes, maybe out of fear that he'd secretly hidden explosives in them, the way airport security checkpoints were convinced people might have.

Airport security really didn't appreciate it when you accidentally left welding tools in your pockets. That was one of the reasons he'd started flying on his own private jets.

They'd probably taken anything that might be useful out of the cabinet, but he couldn't afford to overlook the possibility that they'd missed something.

The sideboard was bare except for an ornate lamp with an ugly cream shade -- it had gold tassels on it -- and a set of heavy crystal glasses, almost identical to the set his father had kept in his office.

The cabinet, however, was not bare. Tony opened it to find an impressive collection of middling quality alcohol.

Tony sighed, feeling something in his stomach sink. Now that he'd exhausted all immediate avenues of escape, he was forced to confront the fact that there was a very good chance he wasn't going to be walking out of here.

Hammer didn't know that the data from his computer and the recording of his conversation with Tony had already been sent to Pepper's email address, where she would be sure to find them first thing tomorrow morning, as soon as she got to work. From Hammer's perspective, he couldn't afford to let Tony go, because then Tony would go straight to SHIELD, the police, and the press, and his secret dealings with Nazi war criminals would be national news, as would his role in the assassination of a foreign diplomat.

Keeping him prisoner long-term wasn't feasible; even aside from the fact that it would add kidnapping to Hammer's list of federal charges, Tony Stark's disappearance would not go unnoticed for long.

If he were smart, he would have designed his watch so that it could send text messages, too, or possibly trigger the Avengers priority alert and then act as a homing beacon.

If he were really smart, he would have told someone about his plans to come here. As it was, no one was going to know where he was until tomorrow morning, when Pepper checked his email. He hadn't even had a date lined up for tonight, since he'd been too distracted to bother with that kind of thing since the embassy, so no one was going to notice anything amiss when he failed to show up for a social engagement.

Pepper got into work at seven forty-five, and checked her email at seven fifty. Justin Hammer would be a wanted man by eight o' clock tomorrow morning.

Tony would be dead long before then.

If nothing else, he thought, staring at the assortment of scotch, vodka, and gin arrayed in front of him, he might as well have a drink on Hammer first.

He poured himself a single malt scotch, filling one of Hammer's fancy glasses to the brim, and held the glass up to the light.

At least they'd left the table lamp, so he wasn't spending his final hours drinking in the dark. That really would have been depressing.

They'd left the table lamp.

Tony glanced from the lamp to the bottles of high proof alcohol and smiled. It wasn't the armor, but considering the time factor and how little he had to work with, it would do.

When removed from the lamp and doused with alcohol, the lampshade burned even better than he had hoped. He even managed not to electrocute himself when he broke open the light bulb and used the white-hot filament inside to start the fire.

Tony poured the bottle of tonic water onto the floor directly in front of the door, and waited for the burning lampshade to set the smoke alarm off.

He didn't have to wait long.

The fire alarm's shrill wail was piericing, and didn't do Tony's headache any good, but the response was almost immediate; the door burst open and a hulking guard whom Tony recognized as one of the three men from Hammer's office came running in. One of his feet immediately slid on the puddle of tonic water, and he went crashing to the floor with a look of stupid surprise on his face. Tony tossed the broken-but-still-plugged-in lamp into the puddle of water, and the guard twitched once before going limp.

Tony counted to ten, slowly, long enough to make sure the guard was either actually unconscious or faking it really well, then yanked the lamp cord out of the wall socket.

He had just disarmed the guard and was in the process of straightening up, gun in hand, when a second guard rushed in, also familiar from those brief minutes in Hammer's office.

He saw the gun in Tony's hand, which was now aimed steadily at his torso, and stopped dead.

"Take your gun out, drop it on the floor, and kick it over here," Tony said. He was surprised by how even his voice sounded, as if he was having a casual chat with the man. "Your cell phone and any other communications equipment, too."

The guard proved himself smarter than Tony had given him credit for. He did as he was bid, eyes fixed firmly on Tony's gun.

Tony kicked the second gun, the cell phone, and the pocket two-way radio behind him, out of the way, then nodded at the man. "Sit down, on the floor. Away from your buddy there. Wouldn't want your clothes to get wet."

The guard sat obediently, holding his hands up in surrender. "What the hell did you do to him?" he asked, indicating his unconscious comrade with his chin

"Electrocuted him with the lamp," Tony said. "Don't worry. He's not dead. There wasn't enough current for that."

The guard gaped at him. "Electrocuted him with..."

Tony smirked. "Haven't you heard? I'm Tony Stark. The last time somebody kidnapped me, I built a weapon out of scrap metal and blew up his entire base of operations. But that's not important. The important thing is that I have a gun and you don't. It's not as good as the ones I used to make, of course, but a .33 caliber bullet's still going to make a nice-sized hole in your kneecap."

The guard was staring at him now. He actually looked frightened. The fire alarm was still blaring in the background; Tony wished it would stop.

"Look, man, we were just doing what Hammer-"

"Tell me," Tony interrupted, "what exactly were you and your buddy there planning to do to me? I mean, you certainly can't let me go at this point, thanks to your boss blabbing his entire evil plan at me, and you can't keep me here forever."

"We were supposed to make it look like a car crash," the guard said. His eyes still hadn't left the gun. "Shoot you up with a syringe full of alcohol, break your neck, and stick you in that fancy sports car of yours. Then, when the cops found it wrapped around a lamp post, they'd have written it off as a drunk driving accident. I mean," he added, speaking a little faster, "everyone knows about your old man. Like father, like son, right?" He attempted a smile.

Did he actually think Tony was going to laugh at his stupid attempt at a joke and be less likely to shoot him? There'd never been any proof that alcohol had been involved in the car accident that had killed his parents, and the official cause of the accident had been a brake malfunction, but Tony knew his father. The rumors that Howard Stark had been drinking before getting behind the wheel that night were probably true, but they certainly weren't funny.

"And you spoke nice and clear for the hidden digital recorder, too," Tony said brightly. The he hit the guard over the head with the butt of the gun. Whoever had said that revenge was a dish best served cold had been wrong; watching the guard slump to the floor was very satisfying.

Tony didn't run into a single soul on his way out of the building, which seemed too good to be true. Where the hell were Hammer and Chen and everybody else who should have been here? It was after six, true, but a place like Hammer Industries never really shut down, anymore than SI did. There should at the very least have been custodial staff.

Not that he was going to complain. His goal was to get out of here without getting caught again or actually having to shoot somebody.

His car probably wasn't safe; for all he knew they'd already rigged it to crash, or had somebody waiting by it for when Hammer's people had his dead body brought out.

Tony hit the street outside, the sidewalk hard under his sock-clad feet, and used the second guard's cell phone to call Happy. Then he hid the gun inside his suit coat; the last thing he needed was to be picked up by the police for wandering around the business district barefoot and armed.

The clerk at the Starbucks two blocks down and across the street glared at him when he walked in, probably over the lack of shoes.

Hammer's goons had left him his wallet, since it would have looked suspicious if Tony Stark was found dead without a dime on him. Tony pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, slapped it down on the counter, and ordered a cup of black coffee, telling the kid to keep the change.

Then he sat down in one of the low, soft leather chairs in the back of the store, rested his aching head in his hands, and waited for Happy to come and get him.

* * *

It felt incredibly strange to sit down with a history book and read about the future. Of course, the 1960s weren't technically the future anymore, but Steve still felt like a time traveler. The Cold War might be the past for everyone else, but it wasn't the past for him. There was a certain amount of petty satisfaction in discovering that Stalin had turned out to be every bit as untrustworthy as Steve had thought, though.

It was just... there were some things he just had trouble wrapping his brain around, like the fact that the Great War, the war his generation's parents had all been in, occupied a more distant place in the past for the people who were "his age" now than the Civil War had in his time.

There were some things in this time that were better, though. No more segregation, no more Depression, and much more equality between men and women -- more equality in general, honestly -- than Steve had been used to. And other things, too, smaller but equally amazing: a vaccine for polio, organ transplants, airplanes that could travel faster than sound, men going into space and walking on the moon. Not to mention computers the size of his fingernail, when the only one he'd ever seen prior to waking up on the Avengers' submarine had been the size of one of the Mansion's larger rooms. It had been under Grand Central Station, and had run the power grid for half the East Coast; Steve and Bucky had defeated a Nazi plot to sabotage it. Nowadays, it had probably been replaced by something about the size of the Mansion's microwave.

The knock on the front door was loud enough that Steve could hear it clearly despite being in the living room, with a hallway and a closed door between him and the foyer, loud and sudden enough to make Steve jump.

Probably Hank and Jan, getting home from what Hank had insisted was a friendly outing and Jan had clearly been determined to turn into a date. Then again, they had no reason to knock.

It was well after six; Jarvis was probably busy with dinner. Steve might as well give him a hand and get the door.

He checked the number of the page he was on and then closed his book and went to answer the door.

The knocking continued unabated, growing even louder as he entered the front hall, and Steve felt his whole body tense up as he reached for the doorknob, readying himself for trouble. He opened the door to find Nick Fury standing on the front steps, fist still up-raised to continue hammering on the wood.

He was there for Iron Man, he had to be. Steve felt sick, his stomach hollowed out with the sudden knowledge that he couldn't give Nick what he wanted. Not now.

Iron Man -- Tony -- was the first real, close friend he'd had since waking up here. The first since Bucky had died. Steve couldn't help SHIELD hunt him down and arrest him, not when he was certain that he was innocent.

"Where the hell is Stark?" Nick demanded, without preamble.

"I don't know," Steve said. At least it was the truth; Tony hadn't specified where he was going when he had left earlier.

"Damnit," Nick swore. "I've looked everywhere else. If he misses hearing that Iron Man's been cleared because he's off banging some dame, it'll be his own fault."

The knot in Steve's stomache vanished; he wasn't going to have to refuse an order after all. He wasn't technically under SHIELD's chain of command, but it still would have felt like a failure to obey orders. "How?" Steve asked.

"We ran all of the members of the UN staff and the Carnelian delegation through the FBI's database and came up with a hit. Larroca's camera guy matched the description of a man known to associate with at least two terrorist groups. The identity he was most recently known under is false, of course, but we managed to do what the FBI and Department of Homeland Security couldn't and uncover his real name." Nick sounded distinctly smug about that last bit. Steve would have bet good money that the directors of just about every other federal law enforcement agency out there loathed him, and probably with good reason, unless his ability to play well with others had dramatically improved.

"Which is?" Steve asked, after Nick had let the suspense build for a moment too long.

"He's a native of Vespugia." He must have seen Steve's confused expression and taken pity on him, because he added, "It's a South American country, one Carnelia's neighbors. The ruler's a dictator, and we're pretty sure that he's in bed with Victor Von Doom. Calls himself 'El Presidente.' We've been tryin' to dig up dirt on him for years, but as far as anyone can tell, the guy just appeared in South America in the late forties with no past. Anyway, the whole place is a pit, and Larroca's death put paid to a Carnelian-led attempt to impose economic sanctions on them."

"So this El Presidente character staged the Ambassador's murder and set Iron Man up to take the fall." And Carnelian was going to suffer for it. From what he'd heard from Tony, the country had been on the verge of a major economic opportunity, and now the entire US-Carnelian trade agreement had been completely sunk before it had even had a chance to get started. Relief at finally knowing with absolute certainty that Tony was innocent mingled with anger that these people will willing to high-handedly destroy Tony's life and livelihood and frame an innocent man in order to serve their own greed. Worse, they had murdered another innocent man whose only crime had been to try to serve his country to the best of his ability.

"Yeah. Looks that way." Nick pulled an unlit cigar from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth, chewing on the end. Nick was the sort of person who probably took pleasure in ignoring "No Smoking" signs, but it looked like Jarvis's glare the last time he'd shown up with a cigar had made an impression. "That ain't the end of it, though. One of the photographs we turned up when we ran a search for the Vespugian mole's known associates matches one of the guys who tried to shoot up my barber shop. Christ, I'll be glad when Stark gets my aircraft carrier finished." He grimaced around the cigar. "Thank God I don't have to fire him. We'd have had ta completely restart the whole project from the ground up."

Nick, as ever, had his own unique set of priorities. A South American dictator had it in for the Avengers for no apparent reason, but the important thing was that Nick still got his Buck Rogers flying aircraft carrier. Steve still wasn't sure exactly why a tiny covert counter-intelligence and investigatory organization that seemed to consist mostly of Nick and a handful of hand-picked minions needed a flying aircraft carrier, but he'd given up trying to make sense of Nick's decision-making processes years ago, half-way through the first mission he'd been on with the Howling Commandoes.

"Any idea why Vespugian terrorists would want to kill us?" Steve asked, just in case Nick felt like sharing further.

"Not a clue." Nick shrugged, grinning. "You'll know when I know."

Steve was about to ask for Nick's word on that when he heard Thor's voice echoing from deep within the mansion, his tone alarmed.

"Tony, my friend, tell us what has befallen you! Who has dared to assault you and..." Thor hesitated, "taken your shoes?"

Steve left Nick standing by the door and followed the sound of Thor's voice, a jolt of adrenaline rushing through him. Tony had been attacked? He'd only left the mansion hours ago. He'd been fine. He... was this why he had wanted self defense lessons? Had he known someone was after him?

If he'd only told Steve, Steve could have--

Tony was striding determinedly along the hallway that led from the garage entrance, steadfastly ignoring Thor, who was following inches behind him. If he hadn't been a seven foot tall thunder god, Steve would have said that he was hovering.

"Mayhap you should sit down," Thor was saying. "I can summon someone to see to your injuries."

Tony's suit was crumpled, his hair was disheveled, and there was fresh bruise on his left temple. He looked pale, his jaw set. And as Thor had loudly observed, he wasn't wearing shoes. His eyes met Steve's, and there was an intensity in them that Steve couldn't decipher.

"Tony," Steve rushed forward, instinctively reaching for him, "What happened to-"

And then Nick unceremoniously shoved past him and grabbed Tony by the shoulders. "Where the hell have you been, Stark? My people have been looking for you for hours. I gave an order for you to be taken in for questioning hours ago, for that damn fake armor stunt."

Tony blinked, visibly refocusing on Nick. "Would you mind not shaking me?" he asked. His voice was casual, but Steve could hear the strain in it. "I spent the past couple of hours unconscious in one of Justin Hammer's boardrooms, after one of his goons clubbed me over the head with what I'm better was an illegal concealed weapon. A cheap one, too. You'd think Hammer could afford to buy his private thugs top-of-the-line firearms. Actually," he cocked his head to one side slightly, frowning, "I ought to still have it. In my inside pocket. I should turn it in, right?"

This Hammer person had knocked Tony unconscious and kidnapped him? Hot anger rushed through him, leaving Steve slightly surprised at its immediacy and force. Kidnapping and assault were something he would never stand for no matter who was involved, but this was Tony, this was Iron Man, and that made it personal. The Avengers were his team now, and Tony was one of them, and Steve wasn't going to let anybody--

"How long were unconscious after their blows felled you?" Thor asked, frowning. "You should seek a doctor to have your injuries tended to, and then we will return to this Hammer's place of business and ensure that he never does such a thing again."

"I'm fine," Tony insisted. "I just need new shoes and maybe a drink."

Nick blinked, then started to grin. "Tell me ya have hard evidence that will let me arrest that sonuvabitch and I won't charge ya with obstructin' justice over the fake armor."

"Would an audio recording of him confessing to the ambassador's murder count?"

"Did ya get it legally?" Nick asked, raising his unscarred eyebrow.

"No."

Nick shrugged. "It'll work fine."

Tony pulled off his watch and handed it to Nick with a faint smile. "There are also files from his computer on there that document his secret business dealings with Vespugia, amongst other things."

"Ha!" Nick was grinning now. It was nice to see that somebody was happy that Tony had been attacked. "If he's in bed with the Vespugians, we can link him to the shoot-out in front of our headquarters last month and that will put him in our jurisdiction instead a' the FBI's. Stark, yer my new favorite person."

"Thanks?" Tony didn't sound as if he were entirely sure this was a good thing. Steve didn't blame him.

"He has attacked my armsbrother's liege lord," Thor said, glaring down at Nick. "I believe that makes him our jurisdiction."

For one horrible moment, Steve was sure Thor and Nick were about to get into a fight over Tony's honor in the middle of the hallway. He couldn't help but feel that Thor had a point, especially since the attack last month had been aimed at the Avengers, but he wasn't sure the hallway would survive.

Tony grinned. "That's a nice thought, Big Guy, and normally I'd be right there with you, but if he's not dealt with legally, Iron Man's name can't be officially cleared."

Steve nodded. "We need to let SHIELD and the police handle this one. But you don't have to worry about clearing your name anymore. You and Iron Man have already been officially cleared."

Tony stared at Steve, face blank. "We have?"

"The Carnelian camera guy was a known terrorist." Nick was still grinning. "We figure it was him. Too much of a coincidence not to be. Hammer have anything to say about that?"

"Quite a bit." Tony frowned, then added. "You might want to send somebody out to Rykers to have a chat with the Phantom, too, before Hammer decides to clean house and sends one of his people out there to take care of him." His eyebrows drew together, as if he were confused or in pain, and he put one hand to his temple, rubbing lightly. He reached out blindly with his other hand, pressing it against the wall as if for balance.

Steve quickly ducked around Nick and took Tony by the arm. "Come on," he ordered. "You need to sit down before you fall down."

Tony blinked at him, looking startled. "I can do that later. This is important."

"Perhaps this discussion would be best continued another time," Thor said, putting one hand on Tony's shoulder. It was not a suggestion.

Steve exchanged glances with him, then nodded. "You've got your evidence, Nick. You can come back tomorrow. None of us are going anywhere."

"I will," Nick agreed. "And when I do, you," he stabbed a finger at Tony, "had better be here, or I'll rethink those obstruction of justice charges."

"I will escort you out," Thor stated calmly. He turned back to Steve, adding, "I will also call a mortal doctor."

"Get the one who fixed Hank's hand," Tony put in. "I liked him."

Thor nodded solemnly, looking oddly pleased. "I will bring Dr. Blake. And I will tell him you said so."

Then he and Nick were gone. Steve led Tony into the living room, moved his discarded book out of the way, and sat him down on the couch Steve himself had occupied only a few minutes ago.

Tony leaned his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. "Steve," he began, "there's something you ought to-"

"When you left here after that self-defense lesson, you must have gone straight to Hammer's office," Steve said, interrupting him. Whatever Tony had to say, it could wait. "Did you know he was the one who framed you? Is that why you wanted me to teach you self defense? Did you actually go there to confront him?" Steve started to pace, back and forth in front of the couch, filled with restless anger and without an outlet. The real object of his anger -- Hammer -- wasn't there, but Tony was, and come to think of it, Steve was angry at Tony, too. What had possessed him to run off to confront a man he must have suspected was a murderer on his own, without his armor, armed with nothing more than a few hours worth of hand-to-hand lessons?

"I had a pretty good idea it was him, and even of how he'd done it, but I needed hard evidence." Tony's eyes were still closed. He looked tired, fragile, and Steve suddenly remembered his comment about not being able to sleep.

Maybe he could understand what had been going through Tony's head after all. Still... "Did it occur to you that before you went off to confront a potential murderer, it might be a good idea to tell someone where you were going?"

"It did, right around the time his three guards were holding me at gunpoint and talking about the best way to make my death look like an accident," Tony admitted.

Steve raised his eyebrows. "You didn't think about mentioning that part to Nick?" he asked, keeping his voice even with an effort.

Tony shrugged slightly. "It's on the tape," he said, waving one hand dismissively, his eyes still shut.

"You do realize that you could have been killed." Steve fought the impulse to grind his teeth or shout at Tony. Tony was tired, and probably concussed, and had been visibly on edge for the past two days. The stress had of being falsely accused of murder must have pushed him over the edge into acting more recklessly than he otherwise might have.

He'd believed that the Ambassador's death was truly his fault at first, that it had been caused by some kind of malfunction in the armor. Discovering, in the midst of that kind of guilt, that Hammer had orchestrated the whole thing, would have made him even angrier than knowing it was Hammer from the get go would have.

One side of Tony's mouth curved up in a smile. "Believe it or not, the thought did occur to me." He opened his eyes, looking up at Steve. "Are you going to keep pacing, or are you going to sit down?"

Steve sat down facing Tony, perching on the edge of the chair. "You know the rest of us would have helped you if you'd said something."

"You did help me," Tony countered. "I think I put one guard in the hospital. Or at least in a sling."

Which neatly avoided actually answering Steve's question. "Too bad there were three of them," he said.

Tony lips twitched, but he didn't reply. After a moment, Steve added,

"Next time you or Iron Man need help, say something."

Tony glanced away, his attention suddenly occupied by his suit jacket. "Hey," he observed. "I forgot to give Fury the gun." He pulled a handgun out from inside his suit coat and laid it on the coffee table.

"Well that's a relief," a voice said from the hallway. "I always prefer it when my patients aren't armed."

Steve looked over to see Thor's doctor friend standing in the doorway, medical bag in one hand and a cane made out of a massive piece of polished wood in the other. His office must be within a few blocks; this was the second time he'd shown up for an emergency call at the Avengers' Mansion in mere minutes. How had Thor managed to convince him to drop everything and come over? Steve had been under the impression that doctors didn't make house calls anymore.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "I don't think you'd have much to worry about even if I was armed. Your club looks pretty effective."

Dr. Blake glanced down at his cane, and smiled faintly. "Patients fear me," he said, as he limped over to where Tony sat. "One joke about Dr. House and you'll find out why."

"Who?" Tony blinked up at him, looking confused and, honestly, mildly concussed.

Dr. Blake sighed. "It's a television show about a doctor who has a cane and an attitude problem. I think he's based on the surgeon I did my residency under."

Steve watched while he shined a flash light into Tony's eyes to check his pupils, made him track a pencil with his eyes, and asked him the standard round of post-head injury questions.

He told him to get some rest, avoid alcohol and any other depressants for at least twenty-four hours, and was beginning to put his medical implements away when he glanced down and saw Tony's feet.

"Thor told me your attackers stole your shoes," he said. "I'm afraid I thought he was joking." He shook his head. "I should have known better."

Tony shrugged. "Maybe they thought I had some kind of James Bond-style gadgets in them."

"It's harder to escape when you have no shoes," Steve volunteered. "Barefoot people can't run as fast or as far."

There was a long pause. Dr. Blake frowned, and then asked, "You were walking around Midtown Manhattan with no shoes on?"

"Only for a block or so."

"Take the socks off and let me look at your feet. You're lucky you didn't step on a piece of glass."

Tony sighed, as if this were a huge imposition, but obediently peeled off first one filthy white sock and then the other.

"I take that back," Dr. Blake said, after a moment. "You have stepped on a piece of glass. Or something sharp, anyway. Have you had a tetanus shot in the past two years?"

"I've had three." Tony was staring down at his left foot as if mildly surprised to see the long, sluggishly bleeding scrape across his heel. He had obviously been even more shaken up than he'd seemed, to have not noticed it. "If I can't have any alcohol," he said, as Dr. Blake began cleaning the bottom of his foot with a disinfectant swab, "can I at least have coffee?"

"Sure." Dr. Blake shrugged. Then he fastened an adhesive bandage over Tony's heel. "There. That should do it."

"How much do we owe you?" Steve asked, remembering only after he said it that it would be Tony paying the bill, not the Avengers. Dr. Blake had treated Tony Stark, not Iron Man.

And even if 'Iron Man' had been injured in his capacity as an Avengers, it would still have been Tony's money paying for it.

"Nothing." Dr. Blake stood up, leaning heavily on his cane to do so. "Consider it a favor for a friend. If I were going to charge for it, I'd just send the bill to Thor." He nodded at Tony. "I'd recommend some rest, Mr. Stark. You look tired."

"The past few days have been... interesting."

That, Steve thought, was an understatement.

"How is your bodyguard holding up?" Dr. Blake asked, curiosity and something else Steve couldn't quite identity in his voice. "If these people used him as some kind of weapon against his will, he must be upset."

"He's fine." Tony shrugged. "Old Shellhead is pretty resilient."

"That's good to hear." Dr. Blake collected his bag, and added. "I got the impression Thor was worried. I don't think he'd ask, though."

Tony stood; favoring his left foot this time. "Thanks for patching me up, doctor. If you ever need anything, remember, I owe you a favor."

"I'll remember that the next time the clinic I work at needs some new, expensive piece of medical equipment."

Then Dr. Blake was gone, as abruptly as he'd come.

The Avengers, Steve reflected, appeared to have acquired their own personal physician. Considering how accident prone some of his teammates seemed to be, that was probably a good thing.

"Cap," Tony said after the two of them had sat there in silence for a long moment. "Steve. There's something you need to know."

"Does it involve people trying to kill you?" Steve asked, not quite sarcastically.

There was that not quite smirk again. "Only tangentially. And that's just because Hammer's involved." The smirk vanished, leaving Tony's face serious and uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "While you were teaching me how to avoid having exactly this happen to me," he touched one hand to the spreading bruise on the side of his head, "you mentioned a Nazi officer named Heinrich Zemo."

"What about him?" Steve said slowly. Zemo was a recurring presence in his nightmares. Baron Zemo had been nowhere near that German aircraft when it had blown up, but in Steve's dreams, he sometimes was, laughing mockingly in that infuriatingly superior way of his while the aircraft burned.

"He's the president of Vespugia."

**End (for now)**

* * *

As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us. And my appologies to any gen-only readers who might have been offended/hurt by the bitchy comment to the anonymous flamer I left at the end of last chapter -- like many non-heterosexual slashers, I react poorly to any and all overt criticism of slash (or even covert criticism) made to me.


	9. To the Ends of the Earth, part 1

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.6 - To the Ends of the Earth 1/4  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG-13  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Some Steve/Tony subtext, because they're canon in our heads.  
**Warnings:** Ants. _Lots_ of ants. Crawling on people. (but not until part two)  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Much delayed, and un-beta'd due to real life insanity.  
**Summary:** Steve finally comes face to face with Baron Zemo. Also, there are ants.

* * *

_**Chapter **__**One**_

Amora was certain that she had never hated any place as much as she hated Midgard. It was ugly and dirty, like the dwelling places of giants and trolls, and not one of the individuals this mortal city teemed with had shown her the slightest fraction of the respect owed to Asgard's mightiest sorceress.

It had been a full month now, and she was no closer to locating and waking Loki or returning to Valhalla.

Even her plan to sway Thor to her side had failed. She had hoped to convince him of the value of her company once his mortal friends were dead, but they were all still irritatingly alive. Somehow, they had managed to break her spell's hold over him before he could so much as kill one of them.

They were the reason Thor wanted nothing to do with her. It was the only explanation that held any reason. If events were left to their natural course, Thor would of a certain find himself irresistibly drawn to Amora, the only other Asgardian on Midgard, the only one who of his own kind. But instead, he consorted with these Avengers, and hid himself in the form of a lowly human doctor.

Odin might have bound Thor to mortal form initially, but it was his choice to spend _so much_ of his time that way.

She was beginning to suspect that not only did Thor have an unnatural liking for mortals, he even enjoyed playing at being one. The Avengers must have some strange hold over him, to seduce him away from his own people so thoroughly.

But like all forms of magical compulsion, it would vanish if she could but rid them both of those responsible for it.

Hence, her current journey to South America. Amora had learned through various sorcerous divinations of a mortal warlord of great age and cunning whose citadel was located deep within the jungles of the southern continent. The idea of a reputation for cunning and spite combined with age reminded her unpleasantly of Odin, grey-bearded deceiver that he was, but desperate circumstances called for desperate measures.

She, the Enchantress of Asgard, who had once commanded all of the magics of the Norns, was reduced to asking a mortal man for assistance.

Her magic had been too weakened to transport her to Vespugia instantly, so she had been forced to suffer the indignity of human air travel. The seat she had had reserved for herself may have been what mortals considered "first class," but it could in no way compete with the comforts of Asgard.

She was forced to switch to a smaller and even less pleasant flying conveyance in Brazil, and then had to spend several hours more in jolting, confining misery before the mortal machine finally landed in Zemo's citadel.

The Vespugian border guards at the airport were most happy to give her transport to Zemo's stronghold, and naturally, she had no problem gaining entrance. The guards at the door came to attention sharply when she approached, and it took little effort, even with her reduced powers, to induce them to escort her inside.

Heinrich von Zemo, El President of Vespugia and the twelfth Baron Zemo, might have been a fearsome warrior in previous days, but he was less than impressive now.

He was withered and stooped with age, his thinning hair pure white, and the hands that had once killed hundreds of men were shriveled into bony claws, joints thickened with age. But his eyes still held the malice and dark intelligence of the man he'd been.

As soon as she looked into their depths, Amora knew she had come to the right man. Evil men were as every bit as easy to manipulate as good men -- and the closer to either extreme they fell, the easier said manipulation was.

"Who are you?" he demanded. He spoke German, with a distinct Northern accent. When she didn't respond immediately, he repeated himself in Spanish. "Who are you, woman? How did you get in here?"

Amora drew herself up to her full height, tall enough to look him directly in the eye. "I am no mere woman," she proclaimed. "I have access to powers greater than any your mortal mind can conceive of. You may call me," she paused a fraction of a second to let the proper attitude of anticipation build, "the Enchantress."

"I do not care what you call yourself," he snapped. "How did you get past my guards?"

"Bending ignorant mortals to my will is as nothing to one as powerful as I." Amora smiled at him calmly. He was no doubt armed, but mortal weapons were of no concern to her.

Zemo's eyes narrowed. His right hand hovered near his belt; perhaps that was where his weapon was. "Has that arrogant schwienhund from Latveria sent you? He will get his next shipment of adamantium when I am prepared to send it to him, and not a day earlier."

Amora frowned, putting her hands on her hips. This was not proceeding quite in the fashion she had anticipated. "No mortal commands the Enchantress," she informed him. She let the faintest whisper of a spell color the air around them, such that he would see her with the admiration she was due. "It matters not where I come from. What matter is what I have come to offer you."

Zemo seated himself in the dark leather chair behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him, and regarded her with a slight smile on his ancient face. "Go on," he said. "I am... most interested in hearing what you have to offer."

* * *

Heinrich Zemo was still alive. He had never been captured, never been tried, never been brought to justice.

Steve could still remember the way his eyes had gleamed when he'd smugly informed them of his plans to blow up the Allied headquarters in England, still see him tapping his swagger stick against his thigh while he sneered at Steve and Bucky ("Is this the best America can do? Inexperienced youths and fools in flashy costumes?").

Bucky had grinned and said that Sergeant York was busy, so they'd had to come instead, and Steve's costume was pretty flashy, wasn't it?

It was the last joke he remembered Bucky making, and that was all down to Zemo.

Zemo hadn't succeeded in destroying the Allied command, but he'd managed to effectively destroy Steve's life. A vastly smaller victory than he'd planned, but for all the death Steve had seen during the war, Bucky's face staring down at him from that plane was the one that haunted him the most.

It wasn't the only one, though. Men under Zemo's command had captured a cell of French guerillas Steve had been working with and executed them all. Several of them had very obvious been tortured before they'd been lined up and shot. Jim Hammond, an android who'd operated under the code name "Human Torch," had been the one to find the bodies. He had stared at Steve over the corpse of a middle-aged man who was missing all of the fingers on his right hand and said, quietly, "If this is what men are capable of, I'm glad I'm not really human."

It wasn't the worst example of brutality Steve had seen, but the men who had been responsible for Buchenwald had been brought to justice. Zemo had been free all these years, untouched, almost certainly continuing to spread his evil wherever he went.

He had arranged the death of an innocent man over something as minor as a trade agreement. And he had tried to have Steve's teammates killed.

The Avengers were all Steve had. He had no family, now that Bucky was gone, and other than Nick and Dugan, all of his old friends were dead. Without Tony, Thor, Jan, Hank, and Jarvis, he would have been entirely alone. Without them, he would still have been in the ice.

Sometimes, when he woke in the middle of the night, Steve could still feel the cold weight of the ice around him. He wasn't looking forward to winter.

The dreams that were just about the ice were better than the others, though. In those dreams, it was just Steve, slowly being crushed by a vast, frozen weight. In the bad dreams, he saw Bucky die again and again. In the really bad ones, it wasn't just Bucky.

Steve sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his bare feet. The Mansion was still and silent, except for the sound of his breathing; not surprising, considering that it was nearly three in the morning. He had given up on sleep an hour ago, after waking up from the latest one. This time, it had been the Ardennes, he and Bucky walking through ankle deep snow to identify the bodies of American troops. Steve had knelt by a man lying face down, and reached to turn him over. He had had to pull hard, the man's body coming free of the earth with a crackling sound, clothing frozen to the ground by his own blood.

When the corpse had finally come free and Steve had been able to roll him face up, he had found himself looking down at Hank Pym's face, his blond hair turned into stiff pink spikes by bloody ice.

Steve had looked up, away from Hank's body, to see Jan lying a few feet away, face up, her eyes frozen open.

Thor had been lying just beyond her, as cold and dead as she was. Next to him was Tony, his hair startlingly black against the snow and the bloodless blue-white of his skin.

From there, things had suddenly jumped, with the illogic of dreams, to the airplane again, and once again Bucky's face had stared down at him from the plane's wing for a brief moment before the fireball had turned everything into heat and light.

Steve twisted his left foot slightly, watching as his toes sunk into the deep pile of the carpet. The soldier with the frozen blood in his hair hadn't been Hank, none of the mutilated bodies he and Bucky had helped the Army photographers capture on film as evidence of German war crimes had been men he had really known. One or two faces had been vaguely familiar, but they had been a different unit from the one he had fought with, and he'd only known them in the most general of senses.

He'd had dreams before, but the sharp reality of the ones from the last few nights had been different. If Steve let himself think about it at all, he could still almost catch the peculiar scent of the dense pine forest almost covering the smell of blood, could almost taste the gunpowder hanging in the air.

The bed creaked quietly under him, and Steve ran a hand through his hair, before dropping it to rest lightly on his knee, letting out a slightly shaky sigh. He had been sitting here for an hour, and memory had finally started to lose some of its immediacy. It was finally starting to feel like something that had happened months ago, rather than something that was still happening now, something that could happen again. He could still remember exactly what the last words Bucky had said to him were, remember the exact expression on his face in those last seconds, but the feeling of ice crunching under his knees as he knelt by those bodies had faded.

Learning that Zemo was still out there had brought it all back.

Steve dropped his head into his hands again, and sighed. His hair was too long; he could feel it tangling around his fingers. His last haircut had been in France. Bucky would make fun of--

No. He wouldn't.

Zemo had killed him. Zemo, who had somehow survived all of these long years while nearly everyone else Steve had known grew old and died. Zemo, who had helped frame Tony and sent assassins after Steve and tried to kill Steve's team.

If those gunmen outside the SHIELD barbershop had been a little luckier, Steve would have lost the only people he had at Zemo's hands all over again. The only friends he had.

It would take so little for tonight's dream to be real. The next group of hired killers Zemo sent might be better shots.

Steve took a deep breath and stood. None of this would be over until Zemo was dealt with. His team wouldn't be safe, and the nightmares weren't going to stop, until then.

He knew where Zemo was now, and he knew what he had to do. He'd been sitting here for an hour trying to summon up the resolve to go and do it.

Now, he just needed to be well on his way before anyone else woke up.

He had never done this kind of thing on his own before. He'd always had orders, an objective, someone to report to, whether it was to the Army or the other Avengers.

He couldn't involve the Avengers in this, though. Going into Vespugia was something he was going to have to do strictly under the radar. If he succeeded, he might very well end up in a South American prison, or even an American one, considering that he was going into a foreign country with the intention of deposing and possibly killing their leader.

He hesitated at the door, shield a heavy weight in his hand. This wasn't the first mission Steve had left on, or even the first one where the odds had been against his coming back, but it would be the first time he left without saying good-bye.

As he headed down the long hallway into the quinjet hanger, it occurred to him that he should have left a note, but it was too late now.

Steve had paid attention during Iron Man's attempts to teach him how to fly the quinjet; and he was pretty sure that he could get it safely to South America. It wasn't that different from flying a regular plane, and he had done that before.

Steve swung his shield up onto his back, tightening the straps to hold it firmly in place, then entered the hanger and went to begin the preflight checklist.

He had just gotten ready to take off when he heard the sound of the door to the hanger being opened with such force that it rebounded off the wall.

Steve spun around to see Thor standing in the door, a tiny Jan perched on his shoulder. Iron Man and Hank -- in Giant-Man costume -- were just visible behind him.

"We are coming with you!" Thor boomed, his voice echoing off the hanger's vaulted ceiling. "An enemy of Captain America is an enemy of the Avengers!"

Steve stood there, frozen, with absolutely no idea what he was going to do now. He'd meant to sneak out, to be gone before the others woke up. They weren't supposed to be involved in this. It was his fight.

"How do you-" Steve started.

"Know you were sneaking out in the middle of the night?" Iron Man asked. "Mr. Stark's got security cameras installed in the hanger. When they picked you up, they set off an alert in my armor."

Did the man never sleep? It was three a.m. Hank and Jan both had the slightly dazed look of people recently shaken awake, but Iron Man sounded as if he'd been up for hours.

He'd probably never gone to bed at all, if the number of times Steve had run into Iron Man or Tony sitting up in the library in the middle of the night were anything to go by.

"Why did you not tell us of your intentions?" Thor went on, blond brows drawn together in a frown. "No, it matters not," he went on, waving a dismissive hand, before Steve had a chance to think of an appropriate answer. "You are our brother in arms, and your battles are our battles.

"Iron Man woke the rest of us up and explained where you were going," Hank said, ducking around Thor and into the hanger. "Jan and I wanted to try and talk you out of it, but Goldilocks here was all in favor of smiting."

"He made some good points," Jan said. "El President's a dictator who seized control of Vespugia in a military coup. The only reason nobody in Vespugia has gotten rid of him is because he killed the last three sets of people who tried."

Hank turned to look at her, and she flutter over from Thor's shoulder to his, shrugging as she landed. "What? Did you think _Vogue_ was the only thing I read?"

"And you?" Steve asked, turning to give Iron Man a pointed glare. Tony had told him about Zemo's continued survival and current location in confidence, the same way Steve had told him -- well, told Iron Man, but he was almost entirely certain now that the two were one and the same -- about Bucky's death and the nightmares.

Iron Man shrugged, the armor's joints making faint whirring noises as he did so. "He helped frame me for murder, and he's selling adamantium to Doctor Doom. I voted for taking him down. He should pay for what he's done."

"Verily." Thor nodded. "His crimes are legion. He has wrought great evil during the Second World War and in more recent days, and he slaughters the rain forest with as little care as he does men."

They couldn't come. He had to make them understand that. Steve opened his mouth to explain that Zemo had control of an entire country and probably a very large and well-armed military; that they would breaking numerous international laws; that he might not be coming back and he couldn't put rest of them at risk because of his own personal feuds.

Even if their support did ease something inside of him.

"This is my-" Steve began again. Thor's frown deepened, and Hank folded his arms and grew several feet taller. Iron Man was simply looking at him, no expression discernable through his metal faceplate. "I would be honored to have you all with me," he finished.

Jan smiled. "Good answer, sweetie."

"Great," Iron Man said. "Now get out of the way and let me finish pre-flighting the quinjet. You've had exactly three lessons on how to fly this thing; there's no way you're qualified to pilot it all the way to South America."

Steve's protests that he had already pre-flighted the aircraft went unheeded. Iron Man performed the entire checklist over again, in half the time it had taken Steve, and within five minutes, all of the Avengers were loaded into the quinjet, Iron Man at the controls and Steve in the co-pilot's seat, the Mansion slowly shrinking below them.

"So, Cap," Jan said, as they lights of Manhattan faded on the horizon behind them, "what's our plan once we've landed?"

"Actually," Steve said, "I, um, don't know."

"Well, we cross into Vespugia's airspace in six hours," Iron Man said. "So you'd better come up with something by then."

* * *

The climate in this land might leave something to be desired, but many of the creatures that were to be found here were beautiful indeed.

Amora raised her hand to eye-level, tilting it slightly so that the sunlight fell across her palm at just the right angle to best illuminate the tiny frog resting in the hollow of her gloved hand. It was a most delightful creature, delicate, even fragile, with huge, liquid black eyes. Its bright golden skin contrasted appealingly with the emerald green of her glove.

Her magic, though diminished, was still powerful enough to protect her from the venom in its skin, but she nevertheless preferred to keep her gloves on.

"Those are extremely poisonous, _mein liebes_ Enchantress," Zemo said, indicating the frog with a nod of his head.

Amora smiled at him, slipping the animal into a small pouch attached to her belt. "I am quite aware of that." She stood, brushing away the tiny smear of dirt that the frog had left behind. "You device is most impressive," she lied, staring up the large metallic dish set into the side of mountain. It was a dozen feet across, its surface gleaming dully in the sunlight, and according to Zemo, its curved sides served to reflect and amplify the beam of energy it emitted. Compared to the workings of the dwarven smiths, Zemo's energy weapon, a device which he arrogantly referred to as "my death ray," was a child's toy. Its beam would barely have left a scorch mark on the walls of Asgard. However, it should prove most effective against Thor's mortal allies, and men, Amora had found, had a great liking for flattery. If spoken to honestly, they tended to grow angry and throw one out of Asgard.

The day of her vengeance against the Allfather would come eventually, however, and her impending victory over Thor and his companions would serve to speed its coming.

"The final components were received from America just this week," Zemo said. "Herr Hammer may have fled from the American authorities, but he is a man of his word. He sent me the final shipment of goods we had agreed upon before he went to ground, and my men have just finished installing the last of the necessary pieces. When the six other death rays that are distributed around my city are activated, Vespugia will be invincible against assault by air."

"And then you will be free to launch your attack on Carnelia without fear of American interference," Amora completed. She had heard this speech thrice already. Carnelia contained the remaining mineral and oil reserves Zemo required to carry out his planned conquest of the rest of Latin America, and its capitol, a large port city, would give him a base to stage an amphibious attack against the isle of Cuba -- something the land-locked nation of Vespugia lacked.

Cuba apparently contained a mighty fortress guarded by American men at arms, from which Zemo, with his death rays, could threaten the southern coast of the American principality of Florida. This tactic, he had told her, had previously been tried by a Slavic warlord without success, but Zemo's weapons were far superior, being defensive as well as offensive, and his success was assured.

Amora had agreed to use her powers to aid him in swaying national leaders to his side. After all, she had always found it amusing to have kings and noblemen at her beck and call, and she needs must find something to amuse herself with until her quest to discover Loki's prison and free him bore fruit. After Zemo had conquered all he intended to conquer, she could easily bend him to her will and rule through him.

She could always get rid of him when she tired of him. Then again, she might not even need to. He was old, after all, and mortals did not live very long.

Zemo had had two of his guards accompany them into the jungle. They were nearly identical, both with short, blond hair and dark glasses hiding their eyes, and the slightly taller of the two had been speaking to someone over a radio headset throughout the entirety of their quest to see the "death rays." Mortals, Amora had found, tended to carry around many small technological objects that made irritating noises.

"El Presidente," the taller of the guards was saying now, "an unidentified aircraft has just entered Vespugian airspace."

When she had first forged her alliance with Zemo, Amora had place a network of spells around the palace, to alert her if another Asgardian came within a hundred leagues of it. As the guard spoke, she felt the magical ties that held those spells in place snap.

"Thor approaches, Baron," she announced. "I can sense his presence."

"So my guards have just told me," Zemo said, his eyes narrowing. "An unknown aircraft has invaded my airspace. I think perhaps this would be an opportune time to test my new defense system, don't you?"

Amora frowned, and shook her head, her hair sliding over her shoulders like silk. "Thor's power is great. Your device may slay the humans, but it cannot kill him, and he will surely seek vengeance upon you for the attempt."

"Let him," Zemo said, smiling slightly. "If he tries to attack, he will find my army waiting for him."

The arrogance of mortals truly knew no end. "He is the mighty Thor," she informed him coolly. "Your army will be as nothing to him."

Zero's sparse, white eyebrows rose. "I had assumed that that was to be your part in our little alliance."

Amora felt her face heat, remembering the humiliation of her previous failure. "My powers have little effect on him, diminished as they are."

"No matter." Zemo gestured sharply, dismissing the subject. "The force of one death ray may not slay him, but six of them together may prove his match. You have but to distract him and any of the Avengers who survive long enough for me to return to the palace and activate them all. This one" he nodded at the structure that loomed above them, "I may arm manually from here, to destroy the aircraft, and hopefully, Captain America as well, but I have not the time to do the same with the others." He smiled again, the expression transforming his gaunt face into a net of wrinkles. "I had never expected fate to be kind enough to allow me to watch Captain America explode a second time."

Amora cared not for the man's petty feuds with other mortals, but fate had indeed been kind to her today. As it should, be to one who had been the favored pupil of the Norn Queens, who ruled men's fates the way the gods ruled men.

Within mere hours, she would find herself face to face with Thor yet again. And this time, the Avengers would not have the chance to come between them.

Thanks again to everyone who's reveiwed, favorites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us.


	10. To the Ends of the Earth, part 2

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.6 - To the Ends of the Earth 2/4  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG-13  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Some Steve/Tony subtext, because they're canon in our heads.  
**Warnings:** Ants. _Lots_ of ants. Crawling on people. Spanish phrases taken entirely from Babelfish.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Much delayed, and un-beta'd due to real life insanity.  
**Summary:** Steve finally comes face to face with Baron Zemo. Also, there are ants.

* * *

_**Chapter **__**Two**_

"Heads up, people," Tony said, as one of the numerous lights on the quinjet's control panel lit up. "We may have been spotted by Vespugian defenses."

Steve frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"For one thing, a targeting signal just locked onto us." Tony stamped hard on the left rudder and wrenched the yoke around as far as it would go, rolling the quinjet and pulling its heading around to the left. "I'm taking evasive action."

"Thank for the warning," Hank muttered. He was gripping the sides of his seat, knuckles white.

The little red light on the console had neither wavered nor dimmed; whatever it was that had its radar system locked onto them, it hadn't lost contact. "Sorry," Tony said, before throwing the quinjet into a steep dive.

According to both quinjet's instruments and the armor's own internal sensors, they were the only aircraft in a five-mile radius, which meant that whatever was trying to target them -- had already targeted them -- had to be ground-based.

"Zemo's been buying weapons from Hammer Industries, and with our luck, that will include top-of-the line surface to air missiles," Tony warned the others. "This could get rough."

On the heels of Tony's words, a beam of bright light materialized only a few feet from the edge of the quinjet's right wing. He swore inwardly and banked left, just managing to avoid it, and it winked out of existence as abruptly as it had appeared.

This was not good. Heat-seeking missiles could be dodged or diverted. Lasers, not so much.

"What sorcery is this?" Thor demanded, Mjolnir suddenly ready in his hand, not that it was going to do him much good from inside the quinjet.

"A giant laser," Hank said, voice dry. "That was a giant laser. Do you think he bought _that_ from Hammer?"

Steve groaned, one hand covering his face. "No," he muttered. "This one's all Zemo. It's his old death-ray gun, only massive. The one he had during the war was hand-held."

Tony felt a sudden, sinking sensation in his stomach. Why did that sound familiar? "What did the ray gun do, exactly?" He had a vague memory of seeing mentions of Zemo's work in some of the articles on Nicola Tesla's teleforce theories he'd read while designing his repulsor technology. Heinrich Zemo had also been working on energy rays during the nineteen thirties, but his theories had been based on completely different and -- in Tony's estimation -- less elegant principles.

Steve caught Tony's eyes, his expression pained. "It disintegrated things."

The entire quinjet lurched, controls shuddering in Tony's hands, as the death ray was fired again, burning a perfectly circular hole some two feet in diameter through the aircraft's left wing.

A hole in the wing was no big deal, Tony told himself calmly, as he fought with the suddenly-far-less-responsive controls. He could handle a hole in the wing. The quinjets had been designed to take heavy damage and keep flying, and they were only at two thousand feet; landing wouldn't take very long.

The death ray materialized once more, momentarily whiting out one corner of Tony's vision, and then the end of the right wing was gone.

"We're going to crash, aren't we?" Jan said, with a surprising amount of calm, considering the circumstances.

Luckily, Tony was wearing the Iron Man helmet, so the other Avengers couldn't see him mouthing a string of silent profanity mixed with pleas directed at the quinjet as he struggled to keep its nose up. "We're going to have to bail out," he said out loud. He used his elbow to shove the throttle back, slowing their airspeed.

"Thor, you've got Giant-Man," Steve said, unbuckling his harness and standing up. "I'm with Iron Man. Wasp, are you-"

"I'm good." From the sound of her voice, suddenly both softer and more piercing, Jan had shrunk down. Tony didn't dare look away from the controls in his hands to check. "I've got my own wings."

Tony waited until Steve had grabbed hold of his shoulder, and then hit the button that opened the cockpit doors. He stayed seated at the controls long enough for Thor, Hank, and Jan to exit the plane, then let go of the yoke and stood. "Time to go. Grab me around the neck," he suggested, "and watch out for the jet boots."

He gripped the edge of the door with one gauntlet for a moment just before they jumped. The quinjet had been the first aircraft he'd ever designed and built entirely on his own -- every part in her had come from his lab, every piece of metal in the airframe and engine block machined by him. "Sorry, girl," he whispered, and then he fired the boot jets, propelling himself and Steve away from the plane.

Moments later, the heat and noise washed over them both as the quinjet exploded. Tony didn't look back.

When they reached the ground, Zemo's men were waiting for them.

Tony had expected that. He hadn't expected that there would be quite so many of them, or that they would have a hum-vee with a M256A1 anti-tank gun mounted on it.

They had two jeeps with M1 machine guns, too, but really, once you were already dealing with 120mm explosive rounds, .50 caliber machine gun bullets were practically irrelevant.

"Now would be a good time to have a plan," Tony said, as he reduced the thrust from the boot jets and landed. "Because either that gun has HEAT armor-piercing rounds, and I'm screwed, or it has anti-personal canister rounds, and we're all screwed."

"Take out their vehicles, first." Steve nodded at the jeep and the hum-vee. "And try not to kill them."

"First, get rid of the big gun," Tony paraphrased. "Good plan. I'm not a fan of the big gun. Well, save for the fact that M830A1 rounds are intellectually interesting."

"Fighting now," Steve muttered, as he unslung his shield and brought it up before him in a defensive stance. "Talking shop later."

Thor and Hank had landed several feet away from them, and Thor was now eyeing the dozen or so Vespugian soldiers in front of them grimly. He was slowly swinging Mjolnir about his head, gathering momentum.

Hank had already grown to twice his normal height. The Vespugians' officer was shouting at the rest of them Spanish, and as Tony watched, one of the machine gun crews swung the barrel of their weapon around to point at Hank.

"Giant-Man," Steve shouted, "shrink down. You'll just make yourself a target."

Tony sent a two-handed repulsor blast at the machine gun -- it wasn't enough to destroy the gun, because the full force of his repulsors would have killed the gun crew, but it sent the two soldiers handling the weapon flying, and the remaining man dove for cover behind the jeep. This kind of thing was what the armor had been built for, but the armor had been designed to be lethal, and right now, that was a handicap.

Hank was shrinking back to normal size, pulling something tiny and silvery from his pocket as he did so.

Mjolnir was a blur around Thor's head now, its flight creating a low, whirring noise that Tony could feel vibrating through the armor.

He had just brought his hand back to throw when the anti-tank gun fired.

There was a blindingly bright flash, and an ear shatteringly loud bang, and a slightly singed Thor stood there unmoved, Mjolnir grasped in both hands. From the look of things, Tony suspected he had actually hit the HEAT round with Mjolnir like a baseball.

And it was HEAT rounds, and not canister. It was a sad commentary on his life that that was actually a good thing.

Tony exchanged a swift glance with Steve. "It looks like Thor's got the anti-tank gun. You and Hank take the men. I've got the other machine gun." He glanced around, scanning soldiers, weapons, and the surrounding jungle so quickly that details blurred together. "Where's the Wasp?" She'd said she would be fine bailing out...

"Wasp's got the anti-tank gun," Steve said. He nodded to the hum-vee, then brought his shield up to block a stream of bullets as the Vespugians began firing their assault rifles at him. The force of the fire dropped him to one knee, but the shield wasn't so much as scratched.

Tony looked more closely at the hum-vee, and this time, registered the small, flying shape darting around the gun mount. One of the men reached for the weapon's firing mechanism, and was met by a brief flash of light. He drew his hand back, quickly.

Hank had donned his Ant-Man helmet -- that was what the shiny thing had been; he must have shrunk it down for transport -- and was standing motionless in the middle of the clearing. A dark tide of tiny bodies was sweeping out from the jungle toward him.

Hank was not bringing any of those things home in Tony's quinjet.

And then he remembered that the quinjet was gone, and at any other time, he might have sparred a thought to worry about how they were going to get home, but the second machine gun had started up, and a line of kicked-up dust and dead ants was being drawn across the ground as the bullets moved closer to Hank.

Tony didn't think, he just moved. The sound of the machine gun bullets clanging off the armor was deafening, and he could feel the impacts straight through to his bones. It was staggering, rattling the armor with too much force for him to even feel any pain, just bruising impact and then numbness. The pain would come later.

The armor couldn't stand up to this kind of assault forever, and all the gun crew had to do was swing their weapon a little further around to bring it to bear on Steve.

Tony braced himself, and started walking forward, ignoring the red warning light that started to flash on his helmet's visual display. The repeated impacts were staring to dent the armor; he was taking damage.

Walking into the machine gun fire took effort, more effort than Tony could exert on his own -- the armor's powered assistance was what kept him moving forward, kept him from staggering back as each bullet hit. The jeep was only ten feet away now. Eight.

He had to go slowly, keep himself between Hank and the others and the gun. Six feet...

The Vespugians jumped out of the way as he bore down on them, and Tony brought both hands up and sent the full force of his repulsor blasts towards the machine gun mount.

There was a bright flash as the jeep exploded, and then a wave of sound and heat struck him, much, much harder than the shockwave from the quinjet, and he was airborne. He had just enough time to think that this was really familiar before the ground came up to hit him.

* * *

Iron Man was motionless on the ground; arms and legs bent like a broken toy.

Steve slammed his shield into a Vespugian soldier's face, then yanked the man's weapon from his suddenly nerveless hands. He dropped the gun, kicked it away, and grabbed the man by the front of his uniform, swinging him around into the other two soldiers who were charging him. Steve had the advantage now; they couldn't use their guns as effectively with him this close, not without risking hitting one of their own, and when it came to hand-to-hand, Steve had the double advantages of mass and training.

Training was the only thing that allowed him to keep part of his attention on the men around him, rather than the far more important fact that Tony wasn't moving, and that he could no longer see Jan.

Steve ducked one blow, blocked another, and felt bone snap as he twisted the soldier's arm back. The man fell to his knees, cradling his arm to his chest and making small gasping sounds of pain, then abruptly stood again with a shriek, brushing frantically at himself with his good hand.

There were immense brown ants crawling all over him. They had completely swarmed the remaining jeep, Steve realized, making it entirely unusable, and were closing in on the Vespugians like a vast, crawling carpet. It was one of the most disturbing things Steve had ever seen.

The jeeps were down, the soldiers were immobilized if not entirely disarmed; now all that remained was the anti-tank gun, which was still firing at Thor. He was spinning his hammer in a circular blur in front of him, detonating the explosive rounds before they could hit him. The entire front of his breastplate was singed, and a corner of his cloak was on fire, but Thor looked otherwise unharmed beyond a few burns. He was effectively pinned down, though, unable to throw his hammer to take the hum-vee out without risking taking a direct hit from the gun.

Tony was still not moving. He couldn't see Jan, and Hank was standing stock still in the middle of the clearing; Steve could hear him muttering to himself over the communicator. "No, Iron Man's not prey. The jeep is our prey. The jeep is good to eat. Come on, you guys like leather."

If this was Hank as Ant-Man, Steve definitely preferred Giant-Man.

One target still live, and none of the others were in a position to deal with it. Steve dropped to the ground and half-slid/half-rolled through the Vespugians' legs, trusting to the leather and mail of his costume and to Hank to keep the ants off him. Once clear, with enough room to throw his shield, he sprang to his feet and hurled it at the anti-tank gun. It sliced into the side of the weapon and stuck there.

Third target down. Also, Steve was now unarmed.

There were several discarded automatic rifles on the ground, but they were all crawling with ants half the size of his thumb, and Steve wasn't about to pick them up, even with gloves on. Otherwise, he would have captured himself some firepower in a heartbeat. He hadn't intended to kill anyone but Zemo, but now Tony was...

Steve had insisted that they all come down here. Otherwise, Tony would be sitting in the Mansion's library right now with a technical journal, or out on the town with some girl.

"My thanks, Captain America," Thor called, with a nod in Steve's direction. Mjolnir was now dangling loosely from his wrist by its leather strap. "It is a pity we cannot speak to our attackers in their language. I would like to offer them a chance to surrender."

The handful of Vespugians lying unconscious on the ground were now entirely covered by ants. Steve didn't know if the ants were actually biting them or not, but he was pretty sure they were eating the jeep's seats. From where he stood, he could see holes forming in the leather.

"I don't speak Spanish," Steve said. "Just a little French and German."

Jan appeared atop the hum-vee, almost seeming to materialize out of thin air as she suddenly grew to full size again. . "_"¡Entrega!"_ she shouted. _"Entrega, y hacemos que las,_ um, ants," she waved a hand at the army of insects,"_ van."_

Nobody moved, though the men were no longer pointing their guns at any of the Avengers. Now that Steve had a chance to really look at them, the insignia on their uniforms was distinctly familiar. The uniforms themselves were green camouflage, but the men had pairs of silver lightning bolts at their collar, and one was wearing a pair of diamond-shaped insignia next to them. "Hande hoch, Oberscharfuhrer," Steve called, pointing directly at the man.

Zemo had been an SS officer. If he'd given his men Schutzstaffel insignia, chances were he'd given them the same rank designations, too.

The officer stared at him blankly, eyes wide with what looked almost like fear. Steve stared back.

The man dropped his gun, and slowly raised his empty hands to the height of his shoulders, snapping an order to his men in Spanish.

"I am impressed." The voice drifted out of the jungle, low, sensual and definitely female. "Well nigh a score of warriors, and you defeat them."

Thor stiffened, his normally open face going grim and set, lips a thin line, Mjolnir immediately at the ready.

"Truly," the voice went on, "the Avengers are mighty indeed. We shall see if they are mighty enough to stand against the power of a goddess."

A woman stepped out of the jungle and began walking toward them. Hank's ants pulled away from her as she went, creating a little circle of clear ground around her. She was tall, with hair the same wheat-gold as Thor's, and was dressed entirely in shades of green, including elbow-length green opera gloves and tall, high-heeled green boots.

She held something small and brightly colored in the palm of her right hand.

There was a faint groan, just audible through the communicator, and Iron Man stirred, one hand going to the center of his chestplate. There was a large dent there, and a gash in the metal extending all the way across the circular inset that Steve suspected had something to do with the armor's power supply. A piece of shrapnel must have hit him.

He wasn't dead. He was a little banged-up, but he wasn't dead.

"A goddess?" Jan snorted. "Since when do goddesses wear tacky green go-go boots?"

Steve felt himself starting to grin. His team was still together, still all right. _Not dead. Not dead,_ a little voice chanted steadily in the back of his mind.

They had just taken on over a dozen men armed with weapons that could have taken out a Tiger tank. They could definitely take on one woman who was armed only with... a little yellow frog?

Iron Man sat up slowly, one hand still pressed against the dent in his armor, and the other cradling his head. "Who are you," he asked, voice wavering slightly, "and how come more of the people we fight don't look like you?"

"She is the Enchantress," Thor said, through gritted teeth. "She is a traitor to Asgard, and a foul weaver of deceptions. Do not look into her eyes, or she will ensorcell you."

Steve immediately dropped his gaze from her face to somewhere in the vicinity of her left shoulder. The last thing he wanted was to be turned against his team.

The Enchantress smiled -- Steve could just see it ought of the corner of his eye. "You're all going to put your weapons down and surrender. You don't want to fight me, do you?"

No, he didn't. She was so beautiful; tall, curvy, regal... everything a woman should be. How could he seriously fight a woman? It would be wrong...

Hank's ants were moving away from her, the circle of clear ground around her spreading. Tony had halted in his attempt to climb to his feet, and was frozen on his knees, hands held out before him, palms up.

Steve tightened his grasp on the straps of his shield, until the leather dug into his fingers. "No," he said. Saying it was easy, because it sounded as if he were agreeing with her that no, he didn't want to fight. "No," he said again. "We're not going to surrender." Getting the words out took an almost physical effort.

Iron Man shook his head, hard. "No. We're not." His helmet's faceplate was as expressionless as always, but Steve could hear the effort the words had taken in his voice.

Hank was shaking his head, too, and the ants were closing in again, their retreat halted. The Ant-Man helmet made his face an expressionless mask, much like Iron Man, but from Hank, the effect was eerie rather than familiar; Steve was used to being able to see his face.

"Your wiles will not work on me this time," Thor said, through gritted teeth. His grip on Mjolnir was so tight that it had turned his knuckles white.

"What's wrong with the rest of you?" Jan, still standing atop the hum-vee, was staring from one of them to next, frowning, her hands on her hips. "Of course we're not going to surrender. There's five of us and one of her." She turned back to the Enchantress, shrinking until she was hovering in mid-air again. "We're here to see President Zemo, and you're not stopping us."

"Foolish mortal," the Enchantress sneered. "Your will is no match for the power of the Enchantress."

"The hell it isn't." Jan flew at her, bolts of energy shooting from her hands.

They ought to have hit the Enchantress dead center, right in the middle of her shapely torso. Instead, a faintly glimmering shield materialized around her, and the energy from Jan's sting splashed against it harmlessly.

Jan pulled up sharply before she ran into the shield, wings fluttering fiercely to keep herself in place. "Any ideas?" she asked the rest of them.

The Enchantress laughed. It was a low, musical sound, like softly ringing bells. "Do not move," she said.

Steve immediately attempted to take a step forward, and found that this time, her spell was not something that could be overcome with a little will power.

The others were all frozen as well. Iron Man, Hank, even the Vespugian soldiers had stopped moving.

The Enchantress made a complicated gesture over the little frog she held in her left hand, and then began walking forwards towards Thor, the ants falling back as she came. "You see how easily my powers affect them. They are weak, unworthy of the attentions of one such as you."

"Release them." Thor cocked his hammer back, ready to swing it.

"We are all that there is of Asgard in this wretched place," she went on, still walking forward, her steps slow and unhurried. "We belong together. Together we could rule Midgard."

"I do not wish to rule," Thor said, and thunder rumbled in the distance. "And I had thought your desire was to rule with Loki at your side."

Her lips curved with a little, possessive smile. "With you beside me, I would have no need for Loki. Stay your hammer, thunder god," she added, "or I will order the soldiers to shoot your mortal friends. They would do anything to make me happy."

"My father was right to cast you out of Asgard. His only error was in not doing so sooner."

Steve could feel the air pressure dropping. He had heard from Iron Man that Thor could actually call and command lightening with his hammer, but he had never seen him do it. It looked like he was about to get his chance.

"I see you are resolved to oppose me," the Enchantress said, and there was regret in her voice. "Very well. Then I shall leave you with a token of my regard before I hand your friends over to Zemo, that you may know what it is to refuse the Enchantress."

And then she threw the frog at him.

Everything seemed to happen at once after that.

The Enchantress had to drop her shield to make the throw, and Jan, who hadn't been affected by her paralysis spell and had been hovering over head, waiting for her chance, sent a fresh volley of stinger blasts her way.

Thor, meanwhile, snatched the frog out of the air before it could hit him in the face. Then he went suddenly pale, hammer falling from his hand to land on the jungle floor with a resounding thud that seemed far louder than it should be.

The Enchantress shrieked as Jan's stinger blasts hit her, and the invisible force holding Steve's limbs in place suddenly vanished.

Thor seemed to fall in slow motion, like a tree being felled, and the sound when he hit the ground was even louder than that of Mjolnir's impact. His back arched for a moment, and then he was still.

"Thor!" Steve shouted. He wanted to turn, to go help his teammate, because nothing hurt Thor, Thor was supposed to be invulnerable, but the Vespugian soldiers had also been released from the spell, and they were getting either brave or stupid. One of them was bending to pick up his discarded gun.

"Don't move," Steve ordered the Vespugians, using German again. "You're still our prisoners." He hefted his shield threateningly, adding, in English, "I can throw this and break you in half before you have a chance to pick that gun up and fire it."

The man quickly straightened back up. It looked like at least some of the Vespugians understood English after all. "You know some English. Good. My German's a little rusty. It's been sixty years, after all."

"I don't care if she gives off electromagnetic energy," Hank was shouting. "Eat her! She's an enemy from another colony and she's going to eat all our eggs!" The ants were listening, creeping up onto the toes of the Enchantress's boots.

"What did you do to him?" Iron Man had regained his feet, and had his repulsors at the ready again. When the Enchantress didn't respond, busy trying to kick the ants away, her lips curled in a disgusted grimace, he fired both of them at her.

The repulsor blast hit her dead on, and she went sailing back toward the crawling carpet of ants, vanishing from sight a split second before she would have hit.

Iron Man let his hands fall back to his side. "I hate magic," he spat.

Steve gave the Vespugian prisoners a final threatening glare before turning back to his team. "You said you would make the ants go away," one of prisoners muttered from behind him, and then the oberscharfuhrer snapped something harsh in Spanish and the man fell silent.

"How's Thor?" Steve asked, ignoring them both. "What did she do to him?"

Jan shrugged, bobbing up and down once in midair as she did so. "She put some kind of spell on that frog and threw it at him." She landed lightly on one of Thor's shoulders, peering at his face. "He's still breathing," she said, and Steve's shoulders sagged slightly in relief. "Maybe it was some kind of sleep or paralysis spell."

Hank's head jerked around. "What does the frog look like?" he asked sharply. "And Jan, get off him. Don't touch anything."

Steve crossed the clearing in a few long strides, but Iron Man got there first. "I'll try removing it and see if that breaks the spell," he said, reaching down and scooping up the yellow frog in one gauntleted hand.

"I said nobody touch the frog!" Hank shouted. "Iron Man, get rid of that thing now!"

Iron Man closed his hand into a fist, crushing the frog between his metal fingers.

"You- What--" Hank sputtered. "Those are endangered!" He paused, then, "Those gloves are non-permeable, right?" There was a thread of worry in his voice suddenly, and a concerned tilt to the faceless helmet.

"Why?" Iron Man asked, in the tones of someone who wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Because the frog you just squished was a _Phyllobates terribilis_, a Golden Dart Frog, and it contained enough toxins to instantly kill two African elephants."

That was... not good. Jan had said that Thor was still breathing, but Steve knelt down next to him to make sure. He could see Thor's chest rising and falling, so the frog hadn't killed him yet, but he wasn't moving, either. His eyes were closed and he looked pale.

Why hadn't he insisted that the others stay in New York?

"Oh." Iron Man opened his hand and dropped the pulped remains of the frog on the ground. Rather than falling upon it ravenously, the ants drew back from it, either from instinct, or because Hank had told them too. Tony stared at his glove for a moment, still covered in a faint sheen of bloody slime. "In that case, if the seal on the glove had been broken, I'd already be dead, so I ought to be fine. What do you need to make an antidote?"

"I don't think there is one," Jan said. "I think people usually die so quickly that there's no point."

"We shouldn't have come down here," Steve said softly. Thor looked every bit as massive even when this still, but seeing Thor still and quiet was unnatural. "I shouldn't have brought us down here." It hurt to say the words. He wanted Zemo to be brought to justice, wanted Zemo dead, but not at the cost of his friends' lives.

First Iron Man and now Thor. Iron Man would have been killed by that explosion if he hadn't been wearing the armor -- Steve had thought he had been for a moment -- and when he had groaned and sat up Steve had been so crushingly relieved, had thought they were going to get out of this without anyone being seriously hurt. And now Thor was...

Thor groaned, and opened his eyes. "What sorcery did she work on me?"

Steve closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For the second time in a handful of minutes, it felt as if he had dodged a bullet.

Iron Man laughed, and even through the faint distortion caused by the armor, it sounded slightly hysterical. "I hate to break it to you, Goldilocks, but it wasn't sorcery. It was a poisonous frog."

"Technically," Jan said, "it was a frog she'd worked sorcery on."

"Technically," Hank said, "you ought to be dead. You grabbed one of the most poisonous things on earth in your bare hand."

"I have survived battle against a horde of frost giants," Thor said, voice stiff and almost offended, "against dragons and demons and all manner of loathsome things. It is not my destiny to be killed by a frog." He pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing as he did so. "For such a small creature, its venom is most potent." He rubbed at his neck with one massive hand. "All of my limbs feel as if the hammers of dwarven smiths have been beating on them."

There was a sudden, blood-curdling scream from behind them. Steve spun around, and dropped into a crouch, heart pounding and shield at the ready. He lowered his shield again when he saw what was actually going on; one of the Vespugians who'd been knocked unconscious by Tony's repulsor blasts had just woken, and was now screaming and thrashing and thrashing in an attempt to get the ants off of him.

His hands and face were red and swollen with bites, some of which were bleeding sluggishly.

They were actually trying to eat him, Steve realized, with a faint surge of nausea. Like in that story about the column of ants destroying a South American plantation. He swallowed hard. "Giant-Man, call off the ants before they actually do eat someone."

Hank tiled his head slightly, as if listening to something. "They don't want to leave," he said. "They're still hungry, and they don't usually move on until they've stripped a place bare."

"You mean they are wont to travel in groups like this?" Thor frowned about him at the masses of brown ants, which had left a clear space around his body. "Their number is as vast as the flakes on snow in a mighty blizzard."

"This is an entire colony." Hank gestured around them with one hand, taking in the carpet of insects. "I sent out signal to summon the closest one. Most colonies would only have sent their worker ants, but these are _Ecitoninae_; when they move, they take the whole colony with them."

The soldier's screams had reached the high pitch of hysteria.

"Well, tell them to take their colony somewhere else," Steve ordered.

Hank sighed, and turned to stare at the ants. There was a surge of movement as the ants seemed to go into a momentary frenzy, and then they flowed down off the jeep and away from the Vespugians like water, disappearing into the underbrush.

The man who'd been screaming went limp, making a faint sobbing sound.

Steve surveyed his team, trying to evaluate what kind of shape they were in. Jan and Hank were both still combat ready. Iron Man was still mobile, and his armor was still apparently operational, if a bit battered, but he was limping -- enough for it to be visible even with his inside the armor -- and kept putting one hand to his chest when he thought no one was looking. Steve hoped he was simply bruised where the shrapnel had hit him.

Thor was the biggest concern; he was still sitting on the ground, and looked just a little bit grey. On the other hand, he was conscious and talking, which was a major improvement on just a few minutes ago and a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

"Are you all right, Big Guy?" Jan asked. "You scared about three years off of my life falling over like that. I'm lucky it didn't give me wrinkles."

"It is of no moment." Thor waved a hand dismissively, and climbed to his feet. "I am not even injured. Zemo is obviously aware of our presence here, or they would not have fired on us. We should hasten to attack his stronghold before he was the chance to fortify his defenses."

Steve hesitated, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed that they wouldn't need to call off the mission. The chances of something _else_ going wrong were only going to rise as they got nearer to Zemo, but they had come this far, and if they quit now, Steve's need to see justice done would have cost them a quinjet and very nearly their lives for nothing.

He dragged everybody down here with him, and they had already engaged the enemy. It was too late to back down now.

If they were lucky, Zemo might think they had been killed when the quinjet blew up.

They would have to tie up the prisoners; they couldn't take them along -- it would both slow them down and increase the risk of someone breaking free and warning Zemo that they hadn't died in the quinjet crash. Unless the Enchantress had already done so, a possibility they couldn't afford to overlook.

They would just have to keep a low profile going in and hope.

"Mayhap one of these prisoners could be persuaded to show us a way into Zemo's palace." Thor gestured at the Vespugians with the hand that held his hammer.

Steve shook his head. "He's not going to be in the palace. He obviously knows we're coming for him. He'll have a secret bunker or some other secure location to retreat to." Zemo had been influential in the Nazi high command, but he had never been the kind of fanatic who refused to cut and run when he needed to. And he always had a fallback plan, usually in the form of something large and explosive.

"I bet one of these guys knows where it is," Iron Man said. He approached the Vespugians, stopping directly in front of their commander, and held his left gauntlet up, inches away from the man's face. There was a faint flicker of blue light from the depths of the repulsor port as he activated it. "Wasp, tell them we want to know where El Presidente is, or I'm going to start frying people, and Hank will bring his friends back."

The commander stared into the repulsor's flickering light with wide eyes, but remained silent. Iron Man's repulsors could burn holes straight through human flesh -- they had killed the Carnelian ambassador instantly, and would probably vaporize half the officer's skull if Iron Man fired them at full force.

There was no way he would, not given the haunted look Tony had worn when he admitted to not sleeping since the ambassador's death, but the Vespugians didn't know that.

Iron Man moved his hand an inch or so closer, the repulsor glowing to full life, and the Vespugian officer, amazingly, broke.

"I will tell you!" he blurted out. "I will tell you. Just don't call back the ants! Kill us with your blasting weapon, touch us with the poison, just let us die cleanly!"

"With the-" Iron Man started, and then quickly recovered. "Good choice." He lowered his hand, the repulsor going dim once more. "Now, you're going to tell us exactly where Zemo is and explain how to get there and what the security is like, or Ant-Man is going to let your men get up close and personal with his little friends until you're the only one left. You, we'll leave, because I'm sure whatever reward Zemo has in store for men who lose an entire command is even more painful than being eaten alive."

It was one of the more convincing threatening performances Steve had seen, despite the innate ridiculousness of the threat -- it might have helped that Hank's _Ecitoninae_ were legitimately terrifying. Moreover, Iron Man's helmet gave the illusion that they were dealing with an emotionless robot, something that couldn't be reasoned with and couldn't be counted on to possess either pity or mercy.

Zemo had apparently retreated to a bunker hidden underneath the Vespugian military's command center. The Vespugians gave them very detailed directions to it.

* * *

A mere half-hour after their battle with the Vespugian soldiers, the Avengers found themselves at the gates of Zemo's stronghold.

It was most impressively fortified, Thor concluded, as he surveyed the great metal door that barred them entry.

They had gotten this far unchallenged, thanks to Captain America's clever suggestion that that he, Giant-Man, and the Wasp don the garb of their Vespugian enemies, and thus pass unnoticed onto the "base."

Thor himself had followed behind them, with Iron Man, since the two of them would have made but poor and unconvincing soldiers. This had had the additional benefit of allowing Thor to keep a close watch over his armored companion; by the stiff, careful quality of his movements and the strained note in his voice, Iron Man was clearly concealing some form of injury beneath his armor.

If Thor were to mention this to Iron Man openly, Iron Man would of course have denied it, as he had denied being injured after Hammer had attacked him. Therefore, Thor would simply have to be ready for it were he to succumb to his wounds.

Zemo's stronghold had of course been guarded, but the guards had proven no hindrance; the Avengers had easily overcome them.

Even the mighty power of Mjolnir, however, was not going to get them through those doors. Thor had struck them a mighty blow, and his hammer had merely dented the surface slightly, when it ought to have rent the door asunder.

"Well," Iron Man observed, "we found out what Zemo's been doing with the all adamantium he hasn't been shipping to Latveria."

Captain America frowned. "Can we make our own door, or does this stuff run through the walls as well?"

Thor adjusted his grip on Mjolnir. "We shall see," he said, and swung the hammer with all his strength at the concrete wall to the left of the door. Mjolnir stuck something solid and unyielding, and a wide circle of concrete turned to powder and rubble, revealing yet more of the silvery metal behind it.

"Wonderful," Ant-Man observed, in a low voice. "Is anyone else thinking we should have gotten a little more information on this place before coming down here?"

The Wasp flew towards them around the corner where the corridor they were currently standing in yet another, wider hallway. "I've flown all over the building," she announced, as she came to hover in the air before Captain America's face. "There's no other way into this place, and it's entirely airtight. There isn't even a crack for me to squeeze through."

Captain America sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. The responsibilities of command were clearly weighing heavily upon him on this quest. "Any suggestions?"

Iron Man tapped the door with a finger, creating the ringing noise of metal on metal. "Adamantium was created to duplicate the alloy in your shield, Cap. It was only partially successful. It might take a couple hours, but between your shield and Thor's hammer, we can get through that door."

"By which point," the Wasp said, "Zemo will have God knows waiting for us in there."

Giant-Man waved a hand at the door. "He's already got God knows what waiting for us in there. It's not like the exploding quinjet was subtle." He pulled his shrunken Ant-Man helm from his pocket once more, and returned it to its full size. "But breaking the door down isn't necessary. I can get us inside faster."

"No," Captain America said, pointing a stern finger at him. "No more armies of flesh eating ants."

"This would be a different kind of ant." Giant-Man spoke hastily, the faintest hint of offense in his tone. "Anything from the _Ecitoninae_ family would be too big. All I need is enough of a gap in the door for an ant to get through, and I can have them short out the electronic locking mechanism on the inside."

Captain America frowned, brow drawing together as he considered this. He turned to Iron Man. "I don't suppose you can do that from here?"

"The lock's controls are on the other side of the door," Iron Man informed him gravely. "I can pick up the electrical signal it's giving off with the armor's sensors, but unless I suddenly gain the ability to mind meld with machines, I need an access point before I can hack something."

"Fine. Giant-Man, we'll do it your way. Thor," Captain America turned to Thor and gestured at the door with his shield, "she's all yours."

"It will be my pleasure," Thor told him.

There was a certain satisfaction to swinging Mjolnir with all of his might, in striking the kind of great, powerful blow that he rarely allowed himself to perform in combat with mortals. The metal of the door was more durable than the hardest stone -- even granite crumbled away under Mjolnir's blows -- and he struck the seam where the two halves of the door met several times before the metal began to warp.

He had not had the opportunity to wield his hammer against the Enchantress or against the evil businessman who had used Iron Man as a weapon against his will, but at least he would have the satisfaction of aiding Captain America in confronting _his_ enemy.

Giant-Man's ants crept through the tiny seam Mjolnir had opened in an orderly file, and several long moments later, there came a dull clanking sound from inside the door as its lock disengaged. Almost simultaneously, a loud alarm began sounding, its notes ringing through the building.

Thor stepped forward and swung Mjolnir once more. It struck true, and this time the door flew open before them, rebounding off the concrete wall with a resounding crash.

There were a dozen Vespugian men-at-arms lying in wait for them in the corridor on the other side. This time, however, they had neither an extremely large gun with exploding shells nor the Enchantress to aid them. Several brief but violent minutes later, the Vespugians were all unconscious, and the Avengers proceeded onward in triumph, unharmed save for a small scratch across Thor's left arm where a bullet had ricocheted off Iron Man's armor and grazed him, and a large bruise on Giant-Man's face, where a Vepugian had hit him.

The corridor possessed a very low ceiling, the thick concrete walls clearing Thor's head by mere inches, so Giant-Man had been able to grow no taller than some seven and a half feet, which had proved a hindrance to him in the brief battle.

Captain America and Iron Man took the lead down the corridor, as their shield and armor gave them the best protection against firearms. Thor himself fell back to the rear, in case any of their enemies chose to try and take them from behind.

The alarm was still sounding as they moved forward, a monotonous clamor Thor did his best to ignore.

The corridor ended in a sharp turn to the left. Thor eliminated the much smaller steel door that stood before them with a single blow, and the Avengers beheld a large room, filled with computer and communications equipment. A red light was flashing on and off near the ceiling, bathing everything in a lurid, red glow.

Standing in the midst of the room was a tall, thin man of great age, his frame wizened and shrunken with his advanced years. He had the erect, commanding bearing of a great warrior, and the most malevolent smile Thor had ever seen.

"Captain America," he said. "I see you survived the destruction of your plane a second time. Most frustrating, but not entirely unexpected. Now you and your comrades will lay down your weapons and surrender to me, or you will all die."

* * *


	11. To the Ends of the Earth, part 3

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.6 - To the Ends of the Earth 3/4  
**Authors:** **seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG-13  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** Ants. Nazis. No slash yet, but hints are starting to show through.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this fan-written work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Much delayed, and un-beta'd due to real life insanity.  
**Summary:** Steve finally comes face to face with Baron Zemo. Also, there are ants.

* * *

**Chapter Three **

Zemo was standing on the far side of the room, beside a large, complicated looking control panel covered in buttons and switches. He had his right thumb resting lightly on one of the buttons, and a familiar sneer on his face.

Intellectually, Steve had known that it had been six decades since he and Zemo had last come face to face, but he hadn't expected Zemo to look so old.

The last time Steve had seen him, Zemo had been a powerfully built fair-haired man in his mid-thirties. Now, the blond hair was thin and white, his face was lined with age, and even his voice sounded different; it had lost the resonant quality Steve had heard him use to command his SS subordinates. The slight German accent and penchant for melodramatic posturing hadn't changed, though.

"There are five of us and one of you," Steve told him. "What makes you think we'd surrender just because you have a red flashing button?" He took a step forward, and Zemo held up his left hand and snapped,

"Halt where you are, Captain America. I have only to depress this button, and my death ray shall wipe this entire city off the face of the earth, killing everyone in it."

Damn. His disintegration rays were certainly more than capable of that. He should have foreseen something like this.

"Including you," Steve pointed out. He knew as he said it that it was a hollow protest. Zemo might be a monster, but he had never been a coward, and he wasn't the kind of man who made empty threats.

Zemo's sneer deepened. "I'm ninety-six years old. I am going to die soon anyway. At least this way, I will have the pleasure of taking you with me."

"And you don't care about the thousands of innocent people who you'll kill in the process?" Jan asked. She was standing on Hank's shoulder, hands up and ready to launch her stinger blast at the first sign of movement on Zemo's part.

"Not especially, no." Zemo actually chuckled, a dry, wheezy sound.

"No, of course not." Iron Man had both gauntlets held up, palms outward; as he spoke, his repulsors flickering to life. "I've read the reports on your mining facilities. If China and Latveria weren't blocking all motions to send a UN fact-finding investigation into your slave-labor-based environmental nightmare of a national industry, there would have been American troops in the streets of your capital years ago." There was a whining sound from the gauntlets as the repulsors powered up, their blue glow brightening. "As your buddy Justin Hammer might have told you, I can fry you with these before you'd even have a chance to push that button."

The whining noise from the armor reached crescendo, then abruptly stopped, and the light from both replusors flickered and died. The power core set in the center of Iron Man's chest plate dimmed noticeably, and he put one hand to his chest. "Oh, come on."

Zemo's lips twitched. "What a shame. It looks as if your power source is damaged. I was disappointed at how ineffective my anti-tank weapons seemed to have been, but it looks like my disappointment was premature."

All right, so Iron Man's high-powered weaponry was out. He was still stronger than an un-armored man, and Thor and Jan still had their full powers at their disposal. And Hank was still wearing his Ant-Man helmet. Maybe he could have ants come short out this computer, too.

He would need time to accomplish that, though. And Steve needed to communicate the idea to the others, without letting Zemo know.

"Oh, your giant guns were very scary," Steve assured Zemo, letting all the disgust he felt for the man color his voice. "Until the ants ate your pretend SS squad's jeep." He laid the slightest of stresses on the word "ant," and saw Hank's slight nod from the corner of his eye.

Zemo raised his eyebrows. "And now you've stooped to threatening me with insects? Out of ideas without your little sidekick to help you, Rogers?"

Steve took another step forward, suddenly not caring about Zemo's finger on that button. "This ends now, Zemo. You're not getting away again." He felt a distant surprise at how cold and angry his voice sounded.

"Go ahead, Rogers." Zemo beckoned him forward with the hand that wasn't touching the button. "Kill me. Condemn all of us to death. It doesn't matter. Whatever you do, I've still won. While you spent sixty years in a block of ice, I survived Germany's defeat, seized Vespugia for my own, and made sure that my Furher's dream, that my dream, lives on. I've ruled this country for forty years, raised it from the dust, molded it in my image, and made it great. Kill us all now, and I will leave behind a country, a son, a grand legacy, while you," he spat, "are still going to die at twenty five."

He was right; taking him down now wouldn't change what had happened all those years ago. It wouldn't change the fact that Zemo had been gloating enjoying his freedom for decades while Steve had been trapped in the ice and Bucky had been dead. But taking him down now would at least stop him from spreading his evil any further.

"It is better to die with honor as a young man than live decades as a base, depraved craven man whose throne is built on the bodies of his subjects, and whose evil poisons the very earth his kingdom rests on," Thor rumbled.

"Power has its price." The red light of the alarm was still flashing, turning Zemo's white hair the color of blood. "You of all people should know that. My ancestors hanged men and cut their lungs out to win your father's favor."

Thor's eyes narrowed. "But not my favor."

Something tiny and dark crept across Steve's foot. An ant. There was a thin, dark trail of ants moving along the edge of the room now, toward Zemo and the death rays' controls.

"You should have been hanged," Steve spat. "Years ago, alongside all the other Nazi war criminals." Zemo's voice might be cracked with age now, but the malice in it was no less strong for all that. If he closed his eyes, it might have been the war once more, with him and Bucky chained up in Zemo's headquarters, at his mercy. Zemo had been smug then, too.

They had broken free, gotten away in time to get themselves aboard that plane, and they had stopped it, but it had cost Steve everything. Cost Bucky his life.

The fingers of his right hand hurt. Steve realized distantly that he was gripping the strap of his shield so tightly that the edges of the leather were cutting into his fingers.

Why hadn't Hank's ants gotten to the computer yet? Standing here listening to Zemo's taunts was like having salt rubbed on a wound, and as long as Zemo had his finger on that button, he didn't have any choice but to stand still and take it.

Zemo twitched suddenly, brushing at himself with his free hand. Hank hadn't been sending his ants at the computer at all; he'd sent them at Zemo.

Zemo brushed at his clothing once more, more fiercely this time, and now Steve could make out the tiny black dots of ants crawling over the tunic of his Nazi-style uniform and under its high collar.

In an instant, Jan had left Hank's shoulder and was hovering in mid-air, ready to attack. Steve flexed his finger, and shifted his weight, preparing to throw his shield, eyes glued to Zemo's hand on that button.

Zemo was laughing as he brushed at the ants. "I don't believe it. I had thought you were joking. Do you expect a minor inconvenience like this to stop me, Rogers?"

As he spoke, he made an abortive movement to swat at the ants with both hands, and that was all Steve needed.

"No," his shield was already in the air, sailing towards Zemo's arm in graceful arc. Zemo was spun sideways by the impact, and then Thor and Jan were moving. "I expected it to distract you," Steve finished, as Thor grabbed Zemo by the front of his tunic and lifted him off his feet, and Jan swooped down to remove the gun at his belt.

"Iron Man," Steve jerked his chin at the console, "take care of that."

"I'm on it," Iron Man responded, moving towards the console. He was walking slowly, one hand still held against the center of his chest. Had he broken ribs when the armored car's explosion had slammed him into the ground?

There wasn't time to worry about it now. He was still standing, which meant that Zemo was still the number one priority.

"How do you expect to leave this country after breaking in here and killing me?" Zemo sneered. He seemed totally unruffled by the fact that he was currently dangling from Thor's grasp with his perfectly polished boots a foot off the floor and his right arm hanging limp, obviously broken.

"We got in, didn't we?" Hank said smugly.

Their quinjet might have been destroyed, but the five of them were standing in the middle of Zemo's main communications center, with Zemo himself at their mercy. They were a long way from out of options.

Thor gave Zemo a slight shake. "What would you have me do with this?"

"Do you want me to beg for mercy? To swear to you that I feel remorse for my 'war crimes?' To call out for someone to come and help me?" The words were a sneer. Zemo was almost smirking down at Steve, his eyes glittering with a cold hate. "I did what I did for the glory of my country and my race and I regret none of it. Tell me, did your little partner cry to you for help before he died?"

The ringing in Steve's ears had never stopped, but now he could actually feel himself shaking. He wanted to beat Zemo to a bloody mess, feel Zemo's bones breaking under his knuckles, hit him again and again until he stopped moving, preferably forever.

If Zemo had still been the physically powerful man he remembered, with his perfect Aryan bone structure, his perfect, blond Aryan hair, and his perfect, muscled boxer's build, then Steve would have done it, would have thrown himself on Zemo barehanded and would have felt a deep satisfaction with every blow that landed, beating the record of Zemo's atrocities into his body. Knowing that it was justice, because it would have been a fair fight.

But Zemo wasn't the man he had been, and even though Zemo had earned it a thousand times over, Steve couldn't beat an old man to death. Zemo would have no hope of defending himself; it would be murder. That wasn't what good Americans did.

"No," Steve said, as much to himself as to Zemo. "I want you dead, but not here, not like this. I want everyone to know what you are, what you've done. I want your loyal Vespugian citizens and international allies to hear about the prisoners you worked to death to build weapons for Hitler, the French resistance fighters you tortured, the men, women, and children you had shot and thrown into a ditch to rot just for being Jews and Slavs. I don't just want to destroy you; I want to destroy your 'legacy,' too."

"I should have known you were too much of a coward to finish the job," Zemo spat. "What do you plan to do with me, then?"

Steve hesitated; he didn't know what he planned to do with Zemo, actually. He'd never really expected to get this far.

"We're going to turn you over to SHIELD," Iron Man said, before the silence could grow too long. His fingers were flying over the control panel's black keyboard, which had more keys than Steve thought a normal keyboard was supposed to have; even when he looked up to speak, they hadn't slowed down. "I'm sure Nick Fury will be thrilled to get his hands on you."

That was... brilliant, actually. Steve should have thought of if himself; not only did Nick have the connections in international politics to see that Zemo was dealt with as he deserved, he also would be able to send a SHIELD team in to extract them, which would solve the problem of how the hell they were going to get out of Vespugia without the quinjet.

"All this time and you still need other people to do your dirty work for you," Zemo hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You're pathetic, Rogers, still the same weakling you've always been! Always so concerned about getting your spotless American hands dirty. Not what one would expect, from a man who keeps company with robots and mutants and other subhuman beings."

Thor gave Zemo a sharp shake. "Mind your tongue, old man. It is not wise to speak ill of those who are companions to a warrior of Asgard."

Zemo wasn't necessarily talking about the Avengers - these were long-familiar insults. The robotic Human Torch, the "mongrelized" Howling Commandoes, and the half-human Namor had all been favorite targets of Zemo scorn. "Jim Hammond was four times the man you ever were," Steve said, through gritted teeth. "And Namor is a better ruler than you could ever dream of being." Namor might be an arrogant bastard who thought all non-Atlanteans were beneath him, but he was a man of his word, who lived by his own code of honor, and he didn't kill people simply for the crime of being the wrong race or religion. Steve knew nothing about what Namor's reign in Atlantis had been like over the past few decades, but he knew without even having to ask that it hadn't involved slave labor.

"Release me! Who are you to judge me? I am the leader of Vespugia, a general of the thousand-year Reich, and you are nothing!" Zemo was shouting now, stiff Prussian composure forgotten. "A worthless puppet who mindlessly serves his debased and weak-willed Jewish masters."

"We're not going to judge you. Some kind of war crimes of human right violation tribunal will." Hank was still seven and a half feet tall, still wearing his faceless silver helmet. It made him more imposing than he otherwise might be. "Judging you would be if I brought the army ants back and let them eat dinner."

On the heels of his words, the wailing of the alarm suddenly stopped, and the flashing red light went dark. "The disintegrator ray is offline," Iron Man said, as half the monitors in the room shut down. "I'm going to call Fury now."

"_Nein_!" Zemo shouted. "I have lived through a hundred battles; I survived the bombing of Dresden and the fall of Berlin! I am the twelfth Baron von Zemo! My ancestors were ruling Europe while yours were rooting in the muck in an Irish bog! You will not hand me over to that filthy, illiterate peasant!" There was a flash of silver in his left hand as he struck upwards, and Thor let out a shout and dropped him.

Then he was coming at Steve, an eight-inch dagger in his hand. "I will see you ended!" he screamed. "I will not fail a second time. _Meine ehre heisst treue_!"

Steve grabbed him by the wrist, halting the dagger's descent a foot away from his chest. It took less effort than he had expected, almost shockingly little.

Zemo twisted in his grasp, trying to pull away, and that, too, was easy to prevent.

"You don't begin to know the meaning of the word 'honor.'" Steve told him.

When all of the soldiers and death rays and political power were stripped away, Zemo was nothing but one solitary old man -- an arrogant, evil man, but just a man nevertheless. Not someone to wake Steve up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and palms sweating. Not something to be haunted by.

"You don't know the meaning of the word 'justice,' either," Steve went on, "but you're going to learn."

Jan landed on the ground beside Thor, growing back to her normal height as she did so.  
"Sorry, gorgeous. I should have checked him for weapons more thoroughly."

Thor examined his bleeding wrist with a small frown, then shrugged. "It is of no moment. The Enchantress's frog stuck me a far greater blow."

The largest of the screens flickered back to life, offering them a three-foot-high version of Nick Fury's scowling face. "What the hell are you people doing?" he barked, before any of the Avengers had a chance to say a word. "Trying to start a war by dicking around in Vespugian airspace until ya actually goaded them into shooting ya down?" He stabbed an unlit cigar at them and went on, "You are this close to getting the United States into a war with half a' South America."

"If it helps," Iron Man said, "we've captured El Presidente Heinrich Zemo -- maybe you remember him? -- and we're currently speaking to you from the secret command center for his weapons of mass destruction."

"Wait, you won?" Nick grinned, sticking the cigar back in his mouth. "Why didn't ya say so? That, I can work with." Then, after a momentary pause, "What do ya mean, Heinrich Zemo? I thought that bastard died years ago."

Steve moved a few feet to the left, dragging a still-struggling Zemo with him, until he was within Fury's probable line-of-sight. "Look, Nick," he said, forcing a smile he didn't feel, "it's our old friend, _Herr_ Zemo."

"Damn," Nick whistled. "It is him. Surrender our buddy Heinrich to SHIELD custody, and I might be able to get ya out of the mess you've landed yerselves in."

Jan stepped forward, so that she was within Nick's line-of-sight as well. "We're also going to need some kind of transportation out of here, since Zemo tested his WMDs on our quinjet."

"I can have an extraction team there from Guantanamo in eight hours," Fury said, making a series of hand-gestures to someone offscreen; Steve recognized several of them as hand signals the Howling Commandoes had used during the war, so Nick had to be talking to Dugan. "Stay where you are and don't talk to anyone or shoot anything."

"Technically we haven't shot anything yet at all." Hank pulled his helmet off, revealing rumpled and sweaty blond hair, and shook his head. "None of us have firearms."

Fury rolled his good eye. "Or bludgeon anything, or blow anything _else_ up. SHIELD has contacts in place with the Free Vespugian government-in-exile in Carnelia; we can claim your actions were part of a planned attempt to overthrow Zemo after the US government learned that he had weapons of mass destruction and was responsible for an act of terrorism that caused the murder of a Carnelian diplomat on US soil."

There were holes in that explanation big enough to drive a tank through, but it was probably more convincing than the truth would have been. Zemo redoubled his efforts to break free, snarling at Steve in German, and Steve forcibly escorted him to a chair that stood in front of one of the banks of computers and pushed him down into it, placing both hands on his shoulders and holding him there. "Someone get me something to tie him up with."

Hank produced a handful of yellow string from inside the same pocket he'd concealed the shrunken Ant-Man helmet in, then held it out in front of him while it grew into fifteen feet of bright yellow nylon rope. "I wanted to practice shrinking and growing inanimate objects on something less irreplaceable than my helmet, and I forgot to take it out of my pocket," he said with a slightly embarrassed shrug.

He brought the rope over to where Steve had Zemo pinned to the chair and wrapped it firmly around Zemo's arms and torso, tying him in place. There was just enough rope left over when he was done to tie Zemo's ankles to the chair legs.

"You are still doomed to failure, Rogers," Zemo snarled. Some of the fight had gone out of his voice; his broken arm had to be hurting him by now. "Do you honestly imagine that you can hold out here for another eight hours? Here, in the heart of Vespugia, against my entire army?"

"We have you as a hostage." Steve was already standing as he said it, turning away from Zemo and back to Nick now that Zemo was securely tied up. "I think our chances are pretty good."

"We are inside an impregnable fortress that even my hammer could not gain us entry to," Thor said, tapping Mjolnir against his palm for emphasis. "We have only to close the door behind us once more to be as secure as if we were behind the walls of Asgard."

"I can help with that." Iron Man had been tinkering with some small electrical device ever since he had successfully shut down the weapons system and contacted Nick; now he held it up for them to see, then tossed it to Thor. "Take this to the door and have Hank attach it to the damaged locking mechanism. It will enable the current to bypass the burned-out circuitry and the lock will re-engage."

"Good thinking, Iron Man." Steve nodded at Hank and Thor. "You two go secure the entrance." It had to be Tony Stark under that armor. Who else would have had the engineering know-how to throw that kind of thing together in no time at all, not to mention successfully disarming Zemo's death rays? He hadn't even hesitated when Steve had ordered him to take the weapons system offline; he had just tossed off a confident "On it," and had buckled down and done it.

"Ya have proof he's got adamantium, too?" Nick's grin split his entire face now. "Hot damn. This is like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one. The SHIELD team will be there in eight hours, and you better have the same number of hostages when they get there."

It was almost a relief to have someone else taking charge for now; the entire responsibility for this whole mission was no longer resting solely on Steve's shoulders. This didn't mean, however, that he didn't have a few qualms with Nick's plan of action. "And what's the American government going to say when they hear about all of this secret maneuvering that's supposedly been happening behind their backs?"

Nick shrugged. "Trust me, the only parts the administration is going to hear are the magic words 'terrorist act' and 'weapons of mass destruction.'"

That was the third time someone had used that phrase. It wasn't one Steve was familiar with, though the meaning was obvious - from the way everyone kept repeating, it must have some significance he wasn't picking up on. A political slogan, maybe, or something from a propaganda film or famous speech?

Iron Man made an amused noise, and Steve could practically see Tony's little half-smirk. "The American government didn't even know he was getting his own flying aircraft carrier until Tony Stark had already finished the plans and submitted SI's bid to construct it."

"Yeah, about that." Nick raised his unscarred eyebrow at Iron Man. "Remind yer boss that his final blueprints for the flight deck and hydraulic catapult system are overdue. We're supposed to start construction this month. And as for you," and this last was directed squarely at Zemo, "I know some people in Tel Aviv who've wanted to get their hands on ya for a very long time."

The screen went dark before Zemo could reply - not that he would have been capable of doing so in the first place, given that Hank had gagged him.

"Hands up everyone who thinks we should gift wrap him," Jan said brightly.

"What, you think we should put a big, red bow on his head?" Glancing at Zemo, securely bound and gagged and looking thoroughly defeated, Steve felt an almost giddy sense of relief. It was over. Zemo was finished. He couldn't haunt Steve anymore. He wouldn't hurt anyone anymore, not the Avengers or anyone else. After a lifetime of evil, he was finally going to pay the price for it.

Bucky could rest easy now; his death would finally be avenged. And maybe Steve could rest easier now, too.

"God, I'm glad that's over with." Iron Man was leaning one hip against the side of the computer console, one palm flat against its smooth plastic surface. His left arm was wrapped around his ribs - definitely broken, Steve thought. Broken ribs were not something to fool around with; they could splinter and drive jagged ends of bone into a man's lungs. Iron Man had been going non-stop since being flattened in that explosion, fighting and flying without showing any apparent care for whatever injuries he might have under that chestplate.

"You were hit pretty hard back there," Steve said, stepping forward and laying a hand over the cool metal of Iron Man's shoulder. "Maybe you should sit down now."

"Not yet." Iron Man shook his head. "I need to find a power outlet. The armor's almost tapped out." He pulled away from Steve's grasp, taking a single step away from the console, then swayed.

Steve grabbed him by the elbow, steadying him, a sharp pang of alarm running through him. He should have checked on Iron Man earlier, shouldn't have let it slide.

Jan stepped forward to take Iron Man's other arm. "Cap's right. You need to sit down. You were hurt in that fight, weren't you? Take the armor off and let us see; you can leave the helmet on if you need to."

Iron Man shook his head again. "No, I just need a power source, I-" he broke off, doubling over and pressing a hand to the center of his chest plate, "I need-"

He fell heavily to his knees, armor clanking loudly on the concrete floor. Steve dropped to kneel beside him, still holding onto his arm, conscious of Jan mirroring his actions on Iron Man's other side.

"It's okay," Steve said, forcing down his rising panic. "We've got you. Jan, help me get his helmet off." He might be choking, coughing up blood from damaged lungs, might have any of a hundred things wrong with him inside that metal shell.

"No, don't-" Iron Man tried to push himself to one knee, then collapsed back against Steve, sagging against him heavily. "...just need to recharge," he repeated faintly. Then his head lolled against Steve's shoulder, metal brushing Steve's cheek, and he was silent.

Jan was already fumbling at the helmet, pressing her fingers against the seams. "I don't know how it comes off."

"Iron Man!" Thor's voice boomed from the doorway.

"What happened?" Hank demanded almost simultaneously, pushing past Thor's elbow to re-enter the room.

"I don't know." Iron Man -- Tony, he knew he was Tony -- wasn't moving. Steve wasn't even sure he was breathing under that helmet. "He just fell over!"

"I knew he had suffered an injury earlier." Thor knelt down beside them, gently brushing Jan's fingers aside to grab Iron Man's helmet. "I should have insisted he spare himself."

With a single, smooth motion he wrenched the helmet loose -- Steve could actually hear the metal groan in protest-- and tossed it aside.

Tony Stark's handsome, angular face was ashen, his lips blue. His hair was sticking to his forehead, sweat-soaked, and his eyes were closed, long lashes dark against his pale cheekbones.

Steve felt his heart turn over in his chest. He had known the truth for the past week, but now, looking at Tony's colorless face and hearing the way he was gasping for air, he wished that he had been wrong.

"Tony," Hank said, voice low. "I knew it! What's wrong with him?"

"I think it's his ribs," Steve forced out, the words sounding strangled to his own ears, "but I'm not sure."

"Nay," Thor shook his head, his expression grave, "mark the blueness of his lips. It is his heart. When the debris from the explosion struck him in the chest it must have damaged it." He was reaching for Tony's hand now, wrenching the glove loose as he had the helmet. "See, his fingernails are also blue. I fear there may be naught we can do."

"No." Steve fumbled at the fastenings of the armor's breastplate. "He's having trouble breathing. We need to get the rest of this thing off him." The weight of the armor couldn't be helping.

He lifted the piece of armor away. It was surprisingly light for its size, no heavier than his shield.

What was underneath was... Steve didn't know what it was. A circular piece of metal with a glowing blue core had been implanted in the center of Tony's chest, directly over his heart. The skin surrounding it was covered in a tracery of scaring, pink and raw-looking and obviously recent.

_"Something happened to me about a year ago,"_ Iron Man had told him, that first night in the library, when Steve had asked him why he was doing all of this. _"I should have died, but I didn't."_

Hank swore. "What do we do?" he asked, almost angrily. "I don't even know what that is."

The... _thing_ in Tony's chest glowed with the same blue light as the circular inset in the center of his armor's chestplate -- the one must be designed to hook into the other, somehow -- but where the one in the armor usually glowed brightly, this one was faint and flickering, like a flashlight with a nearly-dead battery.

Steve didn't know what the little device was doing, but he had a sickening feeling that if it ran down completely, it would be very bad thing.

He had thought, initially, that the reason Iron Man never took his armor off was because it was the only thing keeping him alive. He had rejected that theory when he realized that Iron Man had to be Tony Stark, who clearly could take the armor off any time he wanted to; it looked like he had been right after all.

Sometimes, Steve hated being right.

"He kept saying he needed to recharge." Jan was leaning forward over Tony's chest, staring intently at the metal device and biting at her lower lip. "Maybe he meant that thing." She poked the edge of the metal ring with one finger, tentatively, as if touching it might damage it or cause it to explode.

"Recharge," Steve repeated. "Right! How do we recharge it?" He wasn't going to just sit back and watch a teammate die, not when there was a chance he could do anything to prevent it.

Tony's breathing was coming in irregular gasps now; he wasn't going to last much longer like this. He almost looked dead already, skin washed-out and cool to the touch. He was going into shock; Steve had seen it happen to men before when they were badly wounded, more often than he cared to think about. "How do we recharge it?" he demanded, aware that he sounded slightly panicked. Tony was dying because he had some kind of robotic _thing_ is his chest that was supposed to be keeping him alive somehow and now wasn't anymore and Steve didn't know what it was or how it worked or what he was supposed to do to fix it.

"We need to get him to a power source," Hank said, looking up from Tony's body to glance around the room. "With all this equipment there's got to be one here somewhere."

"What if it needs be a certain kind of power?" Thor was gripping his hammer in both hands, its head resting on the floor between his knees. He looked as worried as the rest of them. Steve wasn't sure he'd even seen Thor look afraid before. "The wrong kind may do more harm than good."

"He's dying anyway," Steve said harshly. "We don't have a choice."

Hank was examining the discarded chestplate now, running his fingers over the circuitry inside. "This slots over that and the power couplings link together," he said. "I think I can run a charge into the armor's power core here," he brushed his fingers across the dead circular panel in the chestplate's front, "and it should feed back into the device in his chest. That, or electrocute him. There's a lot of damage here and I've never seen anything like this circuitry before." He shook his head. "It's like a transistor, a computer chip, a car battery, and a set of Tesla coils had an orgy. I wish Reed Richards were here. I'm a biochemist, not a rocket scientist; this is way out of my field."

"Enough talking," Steve snapped. "Do it."

Thor carried Tony over to the far wall, where the command center's main adaptor and circuit board was, and laid him down gently on the floor. His head lolled sideways, cheek resting against the concrete. Steve wished they had something to put under him, a blanket or something. The floor was cold, and Tony was already going into shock.

It seemed to take forever for Hank to re-attach the breastplate and hook it into the main power outlet with one of the computers' power cords.

Steve was braced for failure, half-expecting it to do nothing and half-expecting Tony to go into violent convulsions, arching up off the floor as the current went through him.

At first, it seemed like nothing was happening, but after an endless minute, the armor's power core flickered back to life and began to glow steadily once more, gradually brightening to something like half its usual radiance.

As the light grew brighter, Tony's barely audible breathing strengthened, evening back out into a normal rhythm.

Steve sighed, then drew in a long breath; suddenly realizing that he'd been unconsciously matching his breathing to Tony's. He was almost afraid to let himself feel relief. It seemed like every time he did, some new, unexpected disaster was waiting for them.

Now there was nothing to do but wait, and hope that no other disaster befell them before Nick's people could get there.

* * *


	12. To the Ends of the Earth, part 4

**Title:** Classic-verse 1.6 - To the Ends of the Earth 4/4  
**Authors:**** seanchai** and **elspethdixon**  
**Rated:** PG-13  
**Pairings:** Hank/Jan. Eventually Steve/Tony.  
**Warnings:** This fic is not quite so fluffy as the previous ones. No slash yet, although hints are starting to show through.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this fan-written work. We're paid in love, people.  
**Author's Note:** Much delayed, and un-beta'd due to real life insanity. Still this will be going up on our regular schedule of Wednesdays and Saturdays come hell or high water.  
**Summary:** Steve finally comes face to face with Baron Zemo. Also, there are ants.

* * *

**_Chapter Four_**

His chest hurt, the sharp knifing pain that meant the shards of shrapnel had been moving again. It was a distant pain now, though, which meant that the chest device was working again and this particular round of near heart failure was on its way to becoming a memory.

Sound was patchy and hollow, fading in and out.

"I think he's waking up." A woman's voice. Pepper? Pepper didn't know; only Happy knew. Had he passed out in the office again?

"See, I told you I didn't electrocute him."

Tony kept his eyes closed, feeling the familiar dizzy weakness that meant he had run out of power again. The claustrophobic feeling of his heart struggling to beat properly was gone, though. He'd be fine as soon as he got enough oxygen back into his blood.

He drew in a deep breath, willing himself not to be sick. He was lying on a smooth concrete floor -- he could feel the cool hardness of it under his left hand.

Tony rolled his head sideways, gently in case moving was going to make something else hurt, and rested the side of his face against the concrete. The chill that seeped into his skin gave him something to focus on, helped him push back the dizziness.

"Iron Man, are you well?"

That was Thor's voice, booming over him. Thor had the kind of voice made to carry through blizzards and across ancient battlefields, and whispering was not something he did well.

Thor. So, he hadn't passed out in the office then.

Then the meaning of the cool concrete against his bare cheek finally penetrated.

Tony opened his eyes to find himself the focus of a semicircle of his fellow Avengers, all of them staring at him intently. Steve was the closest, bent over Tony so that he found himself looking straight up into concerned blue eyes.

Steve was frowning, his blond eyebrows peeking through the edge of the mask's eyeholes. He looked upset, something almost like pain on his face. Tony hoped Zemo hadn't gotten away in the confusion.

"So," he said, trying to sound as casual as one could sound while lying on the floor with a power cord plugged into one's chest, "my secret identity's been completely blown to hell, hasn't it?"

"Why didn't you tell us you were compromised?" Steve demanded, and Tony closed his eyes again at the anger in his voice. Steve had probably never lied to anyone in his life, and Tony had been lying to him, both as Tony Stark and as Iron Man, ever since they'd met.

He'd been lying to everyone since the day he first put on the armor, but most people didn't know either Iron Man or Tony Stark well enough for it to matter. The Avengers were different, though. Like Happy, like Pepper, they had deserved to know the truth, especially Steve, whom he had become friends with both as Iron Man and as Tony. And like with Pepper, he hadn't told them.

"I should have had an hour's worth of power left," he said, instead of the apology he really ought to have offered. "The damage to the armor's power system must have accelerated the drain on my chest device."

The dizziness was fading now, leaving behind a dull headache in its place. Tony rolled onto his side stared to push himself up onto one elbow.

Thor placed one massive hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently but firmly back down. "Your heart may be damaged. You should lie down and rest."

May be damaged? Tony let out a sort of half-laughing noise before he could stop himself. "It's fine as long as this keeps working," he said, tapping the chest device lightly with one finger. "I'm only in trouble if the charge runs dry."

The others were still staring at him, or, more precisely, at his chest. He didn't want to have to tell the whole sorry story - being blown up by your own landmine and getting kidnapped by terrorists, and only escaping because another, better man died in your place wasn't the stuff of heroism by any definition. Steve had respected him, or had respected Iron Man at least, and a small, selfish part of Tony didn't want that respect to end.

"What, um, what is it?" Steve asked, looking away and coloring faintly, as embarrassed that he'd asked.

"A very fancy electromagnet," Tony said flatly. He glanced around, taking in the other Avengers hovering around him. "Where's Zemo?" he asked. "He didn't get away, did he?" After all they had gone through to capture him...

"He's tied up," Jan said, "remember?" She nodded over her shoulder, and Tony , following her gaze, saw Heinrich Zemo tied securely to a chair on the opposite side of the room. The chair was facing away from them, but,

"Did he see me?" That would be all he needed. He'd managed to keep Iron Man's identity hidden for over a year, but during that time he'd made enough superhuman enemies that the idea of someone knowing whose face was under Old Shellhead's helmet was not something he wanted to contemplate.

Hammer had nearly destroyed Tony Stark and Iron Man both, and that was without knowing that they were one and the same.

Hank frowned, shaking his head slightly. "I don't think so. But I, ah, said your name when I saw you with the helmet off. Sorry. If it helps, it was just your first name."

Tony relaxed slightly. He might have gotten lucky just this once; Zemo had more important things to think about right now that Iron Man's identity, like what was going to happen at his war crimes trial.

"So did we figure out what we're going to do with him now that we've got him?" He paused, then added, "Not to mention how we're getting out of here."

Steve frowned, and gave Tony a long, evaluating look. "You contacted SHIELD with Zemo's communications equipment. Nick's sending a team to extract us and taking Zemo into custody."

Which would explain why he'd been so sure Zemo was going to face a trial. "Oh," Tony said. "That was a good idea."

Steve's frown deepened, eyebrows drawing together and jaw tightening. "Thor's right; you should rest some more," he said. It was not a suggestion. "Thor, can you keep an eye on our prisoner? I wouldn't put it past him to figure out some way to get himself untied; Zemo was always resourceful."

Thor nodded solemnly, and stood, bracing his hammer against the floor and levering himself up with it. He was, Tony noted looking up at him, incredibly tall from this perspective. "I shall guard him closely. He may have escaped justice once before, but he shall not do so this time." He nodded at the room's still-open door. "Someone should stand guard over the doors at the end of the hall, lest Zemo's men find a way around the fortifications, as we did."

"I'll go." Jan climbed to her feet, then shrank down and took to the air. "I can bring a warning more quickly than any of the rest of you."

"I'll go too." Hank was already standing. He, too, seemed to loom over Tony, not just because Tony was flat on his back, but because he was still at least a foot taller than his normal height, possibly more.

And then they were gone, and Tony was alone with Steve. Well, unless you counted the Nazi tied up in the corner, and the large Asgardian guarding him. Thor and Zemo were out of earshot, however, and that was almost like being alone.

Tony sat up, concealing a wince as something in his chest twinged. It was probably just a bruise from being hit by flying debris, nothing to worry about. He let himself sag forward, resting his head in his hands, fingers tangling in his hair, which was still sweaty and tangled from his helmet. Where was his helmet, anyway?

He glanced around, looking for it, but before he could voice the question, Steve was holding it out to him.

"I don't think Zemo's seen you yet, but that's no reason to take chances." He stared at Tony as he spoke, expression serious. It felt as if he were looking straight through Tony, through the armor and the expensive haircut and all of the confidence and composure he'd learned to project over the past year to the fucked-up wreck Tony was underneath them. If he looked long and hard enough, Tony knew, he'd figure out that Tony wasn't really a hero at all; just a rich guy with some fancy toys who would never be able to fix even half the damage his company and his weapons had done before he'd gotten his explosives-assisted wake-up call. A hero would have found a way to save Yinsen, would have never allowed himself to be manipulated into killing Sergio, wouldn't need a nightcap every evening just to be able to sleep.

"And speaking of taking chances," Steve began.

Tony took his helmet from Steve's hands without meeting his eyes, not putting it on, just holding it. Even just having it in his hands made him feel better.

"I'm not going to point out that could have died, because I'm sure you know that." Steve's voice was perfectly calm, even soft, probably in deference to the fact that Zemo was less than twenty feet away. Tony could hear the contained anger in it anyway. "You should have told the rest of the team that you were injured." He was still staring down at Tony with the piercing blue gaze, arms folded across his chest and jaw set, silently evaluating him and finding him wanting. Tony found himself looking away, down at the dully reflective gold surface of his helmet, unable to meet Steve's eyes.

"The rest of us need to know what kind of condition you're in," Steve went on. "When you're hurt, I need to know about it so I can plan around it."

"The armor can compensate for that kind of thing most of the time." His heart might be damaged, but as long as he had the chest device and the armor, none of it mattered. He could have been paralyzed or even have lost limbs in Afghanistan, and in the armor, still been stronger and tougher than a normal human. Physical strength wasn't necessary; the circuitry and power-assisted hydraulics did all the heavy lifting.

"Except when it's broken," Steve said dryly. He sighed, and seemed to deflate slightly. "Tell me this is first time this has happened. You can't, can you?"

"The first time the armor's been damaged this way, or the first time I've run out of power?" Tony asked, trying to prolong the moment when he'd have to either lie or admit the answer was 'no, I can't.'

Steve shook his head. "Look, Iron Man, I..." He took a deep breath, as if stealing himself against something, and then he dropped to one knee beside Tony, so that their faces were closer to the same level.

Startled, Tony looked up again, and found himself staring directly into Steve's eyes once again. They were very blue, framed by lashes so blond they were almost transparent. Steve had been so focused and business-like through-out most of this fiasco that Tony had been reminded once more of something that he'd almost forgotten over the past few weeks -- Steve Rogers was a soldier, created as a symbol and trained to be a weapon. Tony had experience with war zones, some of it from a much closer perspective than he would have preferred, but Steve had spent over four years on the front lines of World War II. He might be the same age as the rest of them, but he had a hell of a lot more experience.

Right now, though, even with the mask on and the edges of the shield peeking up over his shoulders, he looked like the same ordinary, earnest, slightly awkward guy Tony drank coffee with in the mornings and talked to about books and old radio shows. Like someone attainable, not an untouchable living legend, but someone he could be friends with.

"Tony," Steve said, his voice low, rough, almost hoarse, "you scared the hell out of all of us. Please don't do it again."

Message received and understood. "You have my word," he said. "I won't let my health problems interfere with the team again." A worried Steve Rogers was almost worse than an angry Captain America; Tony didn't want or need pity, didn't need to be treated like an invalid, and Steve had enough worries of his own without Tony adding to them.

"Good," Steve said.

Tony offered Steve a smile, and then settled his helmet back over his head. The helmet was designed to seal seamlessly with the neck of the armor, making it completely airtight. Before he'd passed out, it had been in perfect working order. Now, it barely fit into place, the edges completely refusing to meet in several places.

Tony felt carefully around the seam, finding three places where parts of the helmet's edges were bent and one point where the metal was actually torn. "What did you do to my helmet?" he demanded. He knew it made him sound like an ungrateful bastard, since the Avengers almost certainly saved his life, but they had _broken_ his _helmet_. That shouldn't even have been possible, given the alloy the helmet was made of and the level of structural strength Tony had built into it.

"We couldn't get it off." Steve shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand and looking almost embarrassed. "Thor had to rip it off you."

"You're not _supposed_ to be able to take it off." Tony had specifically designed the armor that way, to make sure that he was the only one who could remove the helmet, and that it wouldn't get torn off during a fight.

If Thor had been able to pull it off by main force, than it clearly needed a redesign.

"How far away is the SHIELD team?" Tony asked, giving up on any hope of getting helmet to seal properly and reaching for his discarded gauntlet.

"They should be about seven hours out by now." Steve reached down and took Tony by the wrist, pulling him to his feet. Considering that the armor added thirty-two point one pounds to Tony's weight, it was impressive how easily Steve was able to haul him upright.

Then again, Steve had at least forty pounds of muscle on Tony, so maybe it wasn't that impressive. Beyond the fact that that much sculpted muscle was the kind of thing you normally only saw on statues of Greek athletes. Of course, the Greeks being the brilliant and advanced civilization that they were, those statues generally wore considerably less clothing than Steve.

Not that Steve's costume left much to the imagination, either, especially when Tony was sitting and he was standing with his crotch pretty much at eye level. Looking and appreciating was unavoidable.

Tony braced himself against the momentary dizziness of suddenly being upright, waving away Steve's concerned frown. "We'll have to keep an eye on Zemo the whole time. We can set up teams to rotate between him and the door."

"I can bring the security system back online." Tony nodded at the nearest of the consoles. "Then we'll have the outside cameras, too."

"Good," Jan's voice came from behind him. "I was just about to ask you about that."

Tony turned to see Jan hovering in the air a few feet behind himself and Steve, wings beating furiously. Now that the red glare of the warning lights were gone, her red and black costume looked garishly bright in the bunker's fluorescent lighting.

"Any problems at the door?" Steve asked, his body going tense. He was reached back for his shield when Jan forestalled him.

"No, nothing yet. Hank just remembered that we've got a state of the art electronic security and surveillance set-up at our disposal if Tony can undo what he did to it." She turned back to Tony. "It's good to see you on your feet."

"Maybe we can avoid using my name in front of our prisoner?" Tony suggested. Being addressed by name while he was wearing the armor made him feel oddly exposed, but he couldn't exactly ask them all to pretend they still didn't know who he was, particularly given how they'd found out.

"If it helps," she offered, "Hank and I already knew."

"You knew?" Tony blurted out. He thought back quickly over the last few months, trying to remember every interaction between Iron Man and the rest of the Avengers, anything that might have given him away.

Jan raised her eyebrows. "Remember the Thanksgiving party six years ago where you taught Norman Osborn's kid and his weird little friend how to turn a microwave oven into a bomb?"

"Jarvis wanted a new microwave anyway." Tony grinned at the memory; that had been one of the more entertaining holiday parties his parents had hosted. For all that he'd initially cringed at getting stuck at the "kids table," when he was already a college student, Harry, Felicia, and the others had turned out to be better company than most of the adult businessmen he was usually stuck sitting with at dinner parties these days. Also, the microwave had actually left a small crater in the Mansion's back yard.

While Jarvis had in fact wanted a new microwave, he'd been significantly less understanding about that.

"Or back when we were twelve and you hacked into the Hardy's security system and rigged it to go off every time a new guest arrived at their house?"

"Come on, that one was legitimately brilliant." They had had to call the alarm company and bring in two different computer experts in order to undo what Tony had done. He'd been particularly proud of himself over that. His father had figured out it was him, of course.

That was one of the things that had finally prompted Tony to decide that not all parental attention was good attention. Being ignored would have been better than being sent back to boarding school a week early.

Steve lips twitched. "It sounds like there's all kinds of important things about you I don't know. I pity your parents."

"And the fact that I was a horrible kid convinced you that I was Iron Man how?" Tony asked Jan, ignoring Steve's amused little smile.

Jan grinned. "Because I knew there was absolutely no way you'd be able to build something like the armor and not have to try it out yourself. That race car accident you were in last year was all over the news for a week."

"And you told Hank?"

"Hank figured it out for himself the first time Iron Man called him 'Highpockets.'" She smirked at him, and bobbed slightly in the air. "Tip for the future. If you want to keep people in the dark, don't use the same stupid nicknames for them in and out of costume."

This from the woman who called Hank "Blue Eyes." "I'll keep that in mind," Tony said.

"When I was teaching you unarmed combat," Steve said conversationally, "you tried to use the repulsor gauntlets you weren't wearing on me."

And it looked like there were some things Tony didn't know about Steve, either, because it had never occurred to him that Steve was capable of that kind of cheerful bastard smirk.

He was going to have to be watch himself around Steve now. He had lost the safe barrier of being somebody else, now that there was no longer the distance imposed by a secret identity between them. Steve was the closest thing to a real friend he'd made since he'd met Happy and Rhodey, maybe even closer -- he'd found himself telling Steve things he wouldn't have admitted to Rhodey even under the influence of considerable amounts of alcohol -- but a friend was all Tony could afford to think of him as. Too much eyeing Steve's muscles and ass and thinking about how sexy that smirk looked on him could only lead to trouble.

It had been sixty years since he'd last been in one, the insides of military transport planes hadn't changed as much as Steve had expected. Steve often found himself wishing that certain things were still the way they'd been in 1945, but metal and canvass fold-down seats weren't one of them. Neither was sitting in an un-pressurized cargo bay listening to engine noise. For one thing, the plane didn't have any heat, and while it might be over ninety degrees in the jungle far below, it was significantly colder at 8,000 feet.

Hank and Jan were sitting up front, close to the SHIELD pilots. Jan's head was resting on  
Hank's shoulder, and he had an arm around her. Hank had started to make some comment about the cold, and Jan had smiled and rolled her eyes before snuggling up to him. The two of them were talking quietly, but Steve couldn't hear them over the drone of the engine.

Thor was sitting on the floor of the plane, across from Steve. He was too tall to fit comfortably in the seats; Steve sympathized, since his own seat was very much not designed for someone over six feet. Thor looked tired, something Steve had never seen before -- he actually had his eyes closed, not actually asleep, but dozing, his head tilted back against the wall. There were a scattering of small burns across his face and arms from the anti-tank missile, but Steve would bet it was the Enchantress's frog that had left him looking so worn out.

There was a little satisfied smile on his face, though. He obviously counted the mission as a complete success.

Steve, looking around the plane at his assembled team, wasn't so sure.

Tony was completely limp in the seat beside him, in a way that suggested either unconsciousness or deep sleep. In the armor, with the helmet on, Steve couldn't even see him breathing. It was a detail he'd never noticed before, but now, with Tony so still and silent, he was finding it particularly disturbing.

Tony had stayed on his feet until the SHIELD team had gotten there, but as soon as they were airborne, he'd sacked out in one of the seats, looking like a robot that had had its power turned off. Which, come to think of it, was a more apt comparison than Steve liked.

He had defeated Zemo, but it had nearly cost him his team.

It had been stupid to come down here, he knew. They had had no plan, no intelligence on their target's defenses, and no real idea what they were going to do if they actually won. Nick had bailed them out in more ways than one. They all could have ended up in very serious trouble over this if he hadn't come through with his SHIELD team and Vespugian rebels.

Destroying Zemo had been justice, but it had also been vengeance, and it had been incredibly irresponsible of Steve to let the Avengers get involved in it without any preparation. He had taken off on the spur of the moment, letting his personal grievances against Zemo overwhelm his common sense. It wasn't a mistake he would make a second time.

Next time a situation like this arose, if one ever did, Steve would have a plan. He would use the resources available to him -- Tony & Hank's knowledge, Jan's common sense, Thor's battle experience, even Nick's SHIELD contacts if necessary -- to make sure they had the best chances for victory he could buy them.

He wasn't fighting a war any longer, but that was no excuse to get lazy. What they did wasn't a game, and shouldn't be treated as such. It was too important for that, and the stakes were too high.

Still, despite all that, he couldn't help but feel a vast relief that Zemo was gone.

Now he only had to worry about his past haunting him figuratively, rather than literally. Nightmares, Steve could handle. Vespugian assassins coming after his team were much harder to shrug off.

He wished Tony wasn't wearing the helmet, that he could see his face. He needed the sleep, Steve knew, but it would have been easier to keep an eye on him if Steve could actually see him.

At least Jan and Hank were still in one piece.

Once they got back to New York, Steve decided, he was going to call up that doctor friend of Thor's and get him to come take a look at Tony. Maybe at Thor, too, though there probably wasn't much a human doctor could do for an Asgardian god.

"You should be proud, my friend," Thor said softly, his eyes still closed. "You have proven to be a wise leader in battle. And your enemy has been soundly vanquished."

"Trust me," Steve said, and he found himself smiling as he said it, "I'll sleep better knowing he's taken care of. I should thank you, and the others. I would never have been able to pull this off on my own."

"You need not thank us." Thor opened his eyes, frowning slightly now. "No debts are owed between friends."

"Well, thanks all the same," Steve said. He could feel his face heating, and was glad the mask hid it. "If you'd let me take off on my own..." He shook his head. "I'm lucky to be an Avenger. I still owe you guys for letting me join your team in the first place." It had been the best thing that could have happened to him, he knew that. He couldn't even imagine what it would have been like to try and adjust to this new time on his own, if he'd had to try and find a place for himself in normal, civilian life.

Zemo had destroyed Steve's old life, but he had built new one for himself now, with the Avengers. With Zemo dealt with and Bucky's death avenged, maybe it was time to start putting the past behind him, to let himself move forward.

He was living in the future now, after all. It was time he started to plan for one.

**~End~**

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As always, thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favorites-listed, or otherwise encouraged us. This concludes the first story-arc of Classic-verse, taking us to the end of Steve's origin story in early Avengers (Avengers #4-15). We have several other writing projects that we're going to be focussing on now, including an original fic, but we're by no means finished with this 'verse and storyline -- after all, there's so much classic Avengers canon left to steal ideas from, and we still haven't gotten to the slashy goddness yet ^_~.


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